


The Lighthouse

by loonylovergirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Complete, Dark, Dark Romance, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/M, Historical Romance, Isolation, Lighthouse Keeper AU, Lighthouse Setting, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Soldier AU, Strangers to Lovers, WWII, WWII AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:29:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22348777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loonylovergirl/pseuds/loonylovergirl
Summary: Along the harsh and unforgiving British coast, a soldier washes ashore.  At the same time, the lighthouse keeper stares out at the sea in the late hours of the night, watching as a man crawls out of the water.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 165
Kudos: 394





	1. The Lightkeeper in the Window

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Reviews and constructive criticism are always much appreciated. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy!

The winds were vicious that night, piercing through the starless sky. It was shaping up for a storm soon, a good one, the lighthouse keeper thought. She was uneasy that night, and sleep was evasive. She lay still in her bed, ears sensitive to each crash of the wave. _What if the light goes out?_

She frowned into the quiet darkness. The light had never gone out. She turned in her bed, away from the window, and willed her mind to be silent.

She lay like that, her breathing slowing as her thoughts began to calm. 

A particularly nasty wave crashed loudly, jolting her out of her almost-sleep. She sat up, reaching out for her dog. Lady whined when she was woken, in irritation or something else, it was impossible to know.

 _This is ridiculous, the light will not go out_ , the lightkeeper told herself. She sat up anyways, sliding into her slippers and putting on her dressing gown as she walked. Lady followed without being called.

The lightkeeper began her trek up the stairs, Lady at her heels. Her breath grew quicker as she approached the top, though it was not from exertion. She was uncomfortable, and felt a chill sink into her skin despite her dressing gown.

The light was not out. _You are ridiculous._ She examined the lamp anyway, though it was still plenty full of oil. The windows were clear, the light was visible to anyone approaching the coast. She had worried for nothing of course. 

She walked toward one of the huge glass windows overlooking the sea. It was beginning to rain, the wind smacking the droplets against the glass. It was only a few drops at first, but they came down quickly, soon all running together, forming streams that ran down the glass. 

The wind would have frightened the lightkeeper if she was not so acclimated to her job. It screamed in the sky, stirring up the ocean, making its dangerous waves even more unruly.

The lightkeeper squinted through the glass, down toward the sea. If there were any boats on the sea, she wished to see them. It comforted her, to see that she had company, even though she never spoke to any of the sailors that passed her tower.

It was nearly impossible to see through the glass with the light reflecting against her. She could only see her own reflection, familiar eyes staring back at her. She wondered if now perhaps she could fall asleep.

She made her way back down the winding staircase, one hand on the cold brick wall as she descended. In her haste, she had forgotten to bring a lantern, but she had walked these stairs so many times before, she could do it blindfolded. As she approached one of the only windows in the stairway, the roar of the waves and rain grew deafening. The lightkeeper let herself stand before the window, so close that her breath fogged the glass. She wiped it away with the sleeve of her dressing gown, and looked out to the vicious rocky shore. 

The stretch of coast was cold, and unforgiving. The rocks were dark, lightened only by the spray of ocean surf, soaring high into the air, before dissipating into mist. It was beautiful, she thought.

The flash of something moving caught the lightkeeper’s eye. It looked as if a piece of driftwood was making its way onto the rocky beach. The beach was small, located in between two impressive heaps of jagged rock. It was only just visible from the lightkeepers position in the stairwell, and the rain had become torrential, making it even more difficult to see. 

She scrutinized the driftwood, her heartbeat quickening, for reasons unclear to her.

 _It is only driftwood, it doesn’t matter_ , she thought, though she could not lift her eyes away. Beside her, Lady whined, and the lightkeeper absently stroked the dog. 

The driftwood was pushed onto the beach, though it did not look like most wood that the lightkeeper had seen before. It was not long and thin, or even twisted. It did not look like wood at all. 

Her stomach clenched uncomfortably. She hoped it was not a dead thing. Sometimes the fishermen would throw the stripped carcasses of large fish back in the water, and the bodies would wash up on the beach. The lightkeeper could not look away though, a morbid fascination keeping her in her place.

Whatever it was, began to move. The lightkeeper stood for a moment there, what she was seeing not yet making sense.

 _Its moving, how is it moving, what on-_ before the realization washed over her that there was a man, crawling up the shore.

Her heartbeat grew loud, thumping in her ears, as she began to run down the rest of the stairs in the light tower. _There is a man, a living man._ She wondered briefly, ridiculously, if perhaps she should go change into proper clothes before going to the beach. She immediately dismissed the thought. _What if he is hurt?_

Lady kept at the lightkeeper’s heels as she grabbed a gas lamp from her kitchen table and lit it with fumbling fingers, running out of her home toward the sea. The rain was unrelenting and chilled the lightkeeper almost immediately.

“Hello!” she yelled, though she knew she would not be heard over the ocean and wind. The wind and rain made it difficult to run without being blown over, so the lightkeeper walked quickly, hunched over against the elements she competed with. She held her lamp in front of her as she walked, holding it up like a guiding star. Every few moments the harsh light from the lighthouse would circle around and illuminate everything around her.

“Hello?” she called again, the beach now in her distance. It was a man for sure, and a large one. The lightkeeper was still too far away to completely take him in, but she was close. She ran the rest of the distance, down the steep pile of shifting rocks toward the man.

He was lying on his stomach, completely soaking wet. His face was turned away from her, and for a moment she feared he was dead. She touched his shoulder and gently shook him.

“Sir?”

He did not answer. “Sir,” she tried again. This time when he did not answer, she shook him harder. 

_Please don’t let him be dead. Oh God please don’t let him be dead._

The man shifted. “Oh thank you,” the lightkeeper breathed. “Sir, can you stand up? I’m going to help you.”

He moved his face to the side, his eye opening weakly. The lightkeeper gasped, freezing in her place. The man’s face was covered in horrible scars, gnarled and twisted. He looked as though he had been burned, and the lightkeeper vaguely thought of the war.

“Please sir, I need you to try and stand. I can’t lift you on my own,” she said, pushing him in the shoulder. It did not work.

She pushed him again, this time harder, and he moved his arm under him. Slowly, the man began to move onto his hands and knees. His breathing was ragged and loud, even over the cacophony of the elements around them. 

The lightkeeper took her opportunity to grab his upper arm and tug him to a standing position. He was larger than any man she had ever seen, and as the man staggered, the lightkeeper had to use all of her strength not to collapse under his weight. “Please sir, we must walk a bit, and then I can help you.”

The man said nothing, just grunted in response as the lightkeeper acted as a crutch for him. She walked heavy on her feet, with each step planting her foot, praying not to slip. She was still wearing her slippers, now soaked. They were a hazard, squelching with each step, and threatening to slide right off the lightkeeper’s foot.

The wind did not take mercy on the pair, but instead blew rain sideways at them. They were halfway to the lighthouse before the lightkeeper realized she had left the gas lamp on the beach. They were guided only by her memory and the intermittent flashes of light from the lighthouse. Lady, as if reading her master’s mind, began to trot along in front of them, leading them home. Sansa had been so invested in her struggle that she had forgotten the dog was even with her.

The lightkeeper flung the door open, and the door was opened so strongly that it bounced off of the wall next to it. The lightkeeper staggered the rest of the way to the sofa in the living room, and helped lower the man onto it. 

She straightened, soaking wet and freezing, uncertain of what to do. Her contemplation was interrupted by the realization that her front door was open. She hurried to close it, and then busied herself lighting the wood burning stove in front of the sofa.

They both needed to get warm, and out of their soaking wet clothes. The lightkeeper looked at the huge man warily. She did not own much men’s clothing. She was also not a nurse. 

The lightkeeper retrieved her largest blankets, and set them on the floor next to her while she positioned herself by the man. “Sir?”

He grunted, eyes fluttering open, before promptly closing. She rested her hand on his forehead. He was cold, of course, but not as cold as she would have expected him to be. “Sir, you need to get out of your wet clothes.”

Still, the man said nothing. The lightkeeper frowned. Was it inappropriate to undress him herself? Perhaps, but the alternative was let the man freeze, or get ill from staying wet. 

She began with his shirt, as she realized he wore no shoes. As she fingered a button, she froze. The man was wearing a soldier’s uniform. _Had he been thrown overboard? Perhaps he was an escaped prisoner of war?_ The thought of him being a soldier made the lightkeeper feel uneasy. Joffrey had been a soldier.

She quieted her mind, and unbuttoned his shirt, easing him out of it one arm at a time. She continued like this, using a clinical touch to undress him down to his underclothes. She tossed the blankets over him, and took one of his hands in hers. It was freezing. 

The lightkeeper looked the man over once more. There was no more she could think to do. Instead, she went upstairs to her bedroom, locked the door and undressed and laid with Lady until the sun rose. She didn’t sleep.

She laid in bed until the light of dawn seeped through the curtains. The lightkeeper dressed quietly, and walked down the stairs. The fire had gone out, and the man was still laying on the sofa, sleeping. She stilled, staring at the man, until she saw his chest rise with each breath. At least he had not died. 

Her eyes wandered toward his uniform, which she had hung on the back of some kitchen chairs. It was an ugly brownish green, certainly British. 

She set about starting another fire, and getting the kettle going. It was no longer raining, instead the sea was masked with fog. It was so thick that she could not see the ocean, only the hazy outline of the rocks guarding the lighthouse.

 _Who was this man?_ The lightkeeper came around to kneel in front of the man laying on her sofa. In the early morning light, she had a clear view of him. His skin was gnarled and burnt, though only on one half of his face. His hair was dark, and cut short, like soldiers wore it. The lightkeeper wondered again at how an English soldier had ended up on her coast. 

She rested her hand on his forehead. His skin was hot, too hot.

The man jolted half upright, snatching the lightkeeper’s hand as he struggled into a seating position. He clenched her hand awkwardly and uncomfortably, and she gasped in pain and surprise.

“Who are you?” he asked. His voice was deep and rough, his eyes narrowed in a cruel squint. The lightkeeper’s heart began to race as her eyes widened. “Well? Who are you?”

The lightkeeper wrenched her hand out of his grasp, which he let her do easily. She glared at him, holding her wrist for comfort. “I’m the keeper of the lighthouse you washed up on. I found you last night on the beach. Who are you?” she responded coldly. She hoped hostility would help to cover her mounting anxiety.

He looked her over, grey eyes cold and calculating. The man sat up fully and looked around the small home. “Where are we?”

“My home. Upstairs is the lighthouse.” The lightkeeper watched him. The blanket no longer covered his chest, exposing just a white undershirt that she had left on him last night. The man was giant, even larger seeming while he was conscious and sitting up.

He grunted in response. “And what’s your name?” he asked, pulling the blankets around his shoulders.

“Sansa Stark. And yours, sir?” _A lady remembers her manners,_ she heard in her mother’s voice.

“I’m no sir, girl. You can call me Clegane.” Clegane’s eyes fell onto his uniform hanging over the chair. “Your husband let you take a soldier in?”

Sansa tensed, slowly rising and walking toward the kettle. She felt his eyes on her as she pulled a cupboard open and took a tin of tea leaves down.

“Ah,” Clegane said. “Your husband is fighting then. Where’d they ship him off to?”

She held the can of tea in one hand, the lid in the other. The scent of earl grey wafted towards her, gentle and comforting. 

Sansa turned to look at him as she spoke, focusing on his eyes, not his mess of a face. “I’m not married,” she said.

Clegane’s one good eyebrow raised. He looked amused. “Pretty thing like you, not married? What then, your man died?”

Joffrey’s awful face appeared in her mind. “No. I was not ever married.”

The kettle shrieked, interrupting the two, to Sansa’s relief. She poured them both a cup, and she held one out to Clegane, seating herself in the armchair adjacent to the sofa. 

He took the mug from her, and the cup looked doll-sized in his huge palm. He took a long drink from the cup, and looked up at her. “Have anything stronger than this?”

“No,” she said, taking a sip from her own mug. The tea was still hot, and it burned her tongue. She held the mug close to her face and blew on it, watching the steam come off as she ignored Clegane’s stare at her. He looked amused by her. The thought irritated Sansa.

Her eyes wandered over toward the man’s uniform on the chair. “Did you get washed overboard then?” she asked.

The man laughed, a hoarse, mean sound. It made Sansa feel like he was laughing at her. “No.”

She frowned, looking at him instead of her tea. “Oh. Were you taken captive? Or lost?”

Clegane said nothing, the mirth gone from his eyes. Now he just looked frightening. He was intimidating, cold eyes watching- almost expectant.

Sansa’s frown deepened. “What, neither? So then what hap-?” her words faltered in her mouth. She felt the words grow hard and thick in her mouth. _Surely he didn’t._

“Did you-?” she asked hesitatingly. She did not want to anger this huge man sitting on her sofa. The noises around her swarmed together loudly, the sound of waves crashing in her mind.

Clegane clenched his jaw, looking at her, stiffening under his blanket. Despite the vulnerable position he was in, he still looked huge, formidable. “Aye girl, I deserted. And what have you got to say about it?”

“I- nothing- I haven’t any thoughts on it- I just-“

“Quit your chirping girl and spit it out already,” Clegane said unkindly. He did not seem angry, but he seemed annoyed, Sansa thought.

“That’s illegal! You’ll be executed for it, for betraying your country,” Sansa said, her voice lowering as she spoke.

“Fuck the country. Fuck the war,” he said crassly.

Sansa sat back in her armchair, taking the man in before her. She thought perhaps he was fleeing due to his injury. Though she thought for a burn like that, they would have discharged him. 

“Why were you leaving?” she asked.

“Because I wanted to, girl.”

 _I am not a girl,_ she thought. Sansa hummed in response, sipping from her mug.

“It is not my war,” he said.

Anger flared in her. “It’s all of Britain’s war,” Sansa said, setting her jaw. 

“Oh? So what are you doing here then?”

Sansa glared, feeling her blood warm with anger. “ _My_ lighthouse is the reason you didn’t die. What would you have done without it’s light then, hm?”

She stood, feeling her face flush with irritation. Soon her skin would match her hair. Sansa plucked Clegane’s still half full cup from his hands and placed it in the sink, beginning to wash the two. She did not look back to see his response, feeling herself still steam with anger.

“I won’t harbor a deserter in my home. As soon as you’re well, you must leave,” Sansa said, voice sure and steady.

The man began to stand, though Sansa noticed he did not rise fully. “I can leave now girl, wouldn’t want you worrying your pretty head over me,” he said, walking slowly towards his clothes. His movement was heavy, the gait of a man unsure of his feet. 

Sansa’s sense of modesty dissipated, as she glared at the man, who was clad only in underclothes. Her anger wavered, and she sighed. When she responded, her voice was calm again. “Sit, please. You have a fever, and the weather won’t help your health. Stay here until you’re well.”

Clegane turned to look at her, taking her in. He seemed calm now, Sansa thought. He shivered slightly, the movement obvious on his huge frame.

“Sit. I’ll get you another blanket,” she said. “And don’t call me _girl_ again.”


	2. A Night of Little Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you all for your amazing response to last chapter, and to everyone that left feedback. I am so grateful to all of you, and I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Between her daily chores Sansa would check on Clegane. He slept most of the day, curled tightly on the sofa, covered in all the blankets Sansa could find. At midday, she forced tea into his hands, and tried to make him eat soup. 

He began to look worse as the day went on, and his skin grew hotter. Sweat coated his face in a thin sheen, and when he slept, his brow remained furrowed. Despite his heat, he still shook sporadically.

“Lady, come here,” Sansa said. “Up,” she said, pointing toward the sofa that Clegane lay on. 

Lady jumped onto the man’s lap, causing him to grunt from the impact, waking him from a shallow sleep. “What are you doing?” he murmured.

“Lady gives off a good bit of heat. She ought to help you keep warm.” Sansa remembered when she was a child, her mother caring for her and her siblings when they would fall ill. _You must sweat out the fever,_ she recalled. “I’m going to get more firewood,” she said, picking up a crate next to the wood stove on her way out.

The salty air was a welcome relief from the sweltering home. She pulled the front of her dress away from her body, letting the air circulate under her clothes. _What will I do?_ Sansa wondered. 

She walked to the stacked firewood and began to pile it into the crate absently. _This is quite illegal. I should not have him in my home. He could be a killer, or a rapist._

A vicious gust of wind ripped pieces of hair out of her braid and threw them against her face. Sansa slowed, watching the sea as it crashed against the rocks protecting the lighthouse. The ocean was choppy, and the sky an overcast light grey. She loved days like this. 

Sansa shifted the crate to her hip as she opened the door, holding the handle tight as the wind tried wrenching it from her grasp. She pushed the door shut behind her and placed the crate down by the floor. 

Clegane was sound asleep, half his body covered by Lady, who was also asleep. One huge hand rested on Lady’s neck, and with each rise of his chest, he let out a quiet snore. Sansa smiled, reminded of her father’s snoring. 

She could not decide her feelings toward Clegane. She was not as scared of him as she probably should have been, but she was not so stupid as to trust him. He was still a deserter, which meant he could not be trusted. Or very well liked.

She began to tend the fire as quietly as she could, reluctant to wake Clegane. 

He slept until supper, when she felt she had to wake him. She had made a stew, and there was leftover bread, if Clegane could manage to eat that much. Loathe as she was to worry over him, she could not deny her mounting concern. How long had he been in the water? Sansa knew it was very well possible to catch your death from being in cold water too long. If the fever did not break soon, she would have to call a doctor, and somehow explain this bizarre situation.

And then there was the matter of clothes. She could not very well send him off into the world with a British uniform on and no shoes, everyone would know he had deserted, wouldn’t they? _But isn’t that what he deserves? He’s a traitor._

Sansa frowned as she ladled stew into a bowl. _One thing at a time,_ her father would have said. She crouched in front of Clegane, holding the bowl. This time, she did not touch him to wake him. 

“Mr. Clegane,” she whispered. He did not stir at all. “Mr. Clegane,” she said again, this time louder. His eyes flickered slowly, opening and landing on her. “Supper,” she said quietly, holding up the bowl slightly. 

He grunted, moving to sit up. Lady woke from his movement and slunk off the sofa. His huge hands reached out and took the bowl from her, calloused fingertips brushing her own. His touch was fever-hot and burned Sansa. She tucked her own hands into her sides as she appraised Clegane. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked him.

“Tired. I’ll be fine soon ‘nuff,” he said, shoveling stew into his mouth. 

He was not very polite, Sansa noticed. “Well that’s good. If your fever doesn’t break soon, I’ll need to ring the doctor.”

Clegane froze with his spoon in mid-air, and looked at Sansa, hard. “No, you can’t.”

“Well if it doesn’t break that might mean-.”

“No- girl. No doctors. They’ll know I deserted,” he said, his voice firm.

“Well what do you expect me to do? I’m no nurse, I don’t know how to heal you,” she said, voice raising in annoyance. “And I _told_ you not to call me ‘girl’.” 

The fire in his eyes dwindled down, though they remained harsh and firm. “No doctors.”

“Then I suppose you’d better go on and heal quick,” Sansa said, standing up. “I’m going to ready the lamp.”

She put her box of matches in her pocket after she lit an old gas lamp. _I should get the other one off the beach,_ Sansa thought, remembering the night she had found Clegane. She picked up the lamp and pushed her feet into her boots instead of slippers. 

“I’ll be back,” she said to Clegane. “Lady, let’s go,” she said, and the dog dutifully trailed after her.

Sansa climbed the stairs quietly, lost in thought. If Clegane did not get well soon, she would have no choice but to call for help. She could not just let him die, and she was not a proper nurse. 

Her thoughts shifted to her family. Arya would be furious with her if she knew what Sansa was doing. Letting a strange man in her home, what was she, mad? Robb and Jon would be angry too. She hoped they were all okay. Robb and Jon were off in France, fighting, and Arya was God knows where, likely spying for their mother country. She hadn’t been allowed to tell Sansa. 

The little ones, Bran and Rickon, though not so little anymore, were sent off to the countryside with their governess, Osha. They, at least, were safe. For the first time in her life, Sansa was grateful for Bran’s ruined legs. He would never go to war at least. 

Her heart burned with anger and sadness when she thought of her mother and father. Her father killed in a prisoner of war camp, and her mother killed in a fire bombing. She did not allow herself to think of them much these days. 

Sansa set about readying the lamp in the lighthouse. She refilled the gas in the lamp and lit it, savoring the heat from the match on her fingertips. The flame from the lamp bounced off the reflectors in a blaze of light. It took Sansa’s breath away as it always did, the rush of light overwhelming and showstopping. 

She sighed, comforted by the fact that she was doing something important. Sansa made her way back down the stairs, entering her home at the bottom of the lighthouse. Lady bounded through the door ahead of her, leaping onto the couch, straight on to Clegane’s lap.

He grunted from the impact, and just as Sansa was about to apologize profusely, he laughed, and began scratching Lady. Sansa’s mouth was open, she knew, but she was frozen by the unlikely sight in front of her. Clegane was sitting up to better scrub Lady down, smiling tiredly as he did so. 

His scars were not nearly as noticeable as they were yesterday, Sansa thought. And he was much less frightening when he smiled. His unburnt side, while still exhausted and sickly looking, might be handsome, Sansa thought. 

_What are you doing Sansa? Dear God._

“What are you looking at girl?” he asked gruffly, moving Sansa out of her thoughts. His smile was gone, an icy look taking its place.

“I- nothing. Just you and Lady.”

“What? Bad man like me can’t like dogs, is that it?”

Sansa frowned, placing her lamp on the kitchen table and coming around to stand in front of Clegane. She crossed her arms defensively. “Why must you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Be so harsh. I say nothing unkind, yet you act as if I do. I don’t understand.”

Clegane said nothing, just grunted in response and laid back down on the sofa, covering his eyes with an arm.

Sansa rolled her eyes to the ceiling, before kicking her rubber boots off by the wood burning stove and marching back up the stairs to get ready for bed. 

_Why was he so rude? Is this what war did to all men? It couldn’t be so. Her brothers would never act like this. Maybe it was the scar, now he was jaded to the world._

She dressed in her nightgown and tied her dressing robe around her. As Sansa stood in her bedroom she hesitated. Perhaps some of her father’s clothes would fit Clegane? It was unlikely, as he was so huge. 

Sansa opened the trunk at the end of her bed, pulling out a sweater and pyjamas that had belonged to her father. They were too large for her, but they smelled like him, and since her brothers were at war, Father’s clothes had gone to her. She held the pyjamas to her face and breathed them in, inhaling deeply. Despite staying in a trunk for more than a year, they still smelled like her father. Earth and black tea and laundry soap.

Sansa breathed through the wave of tears that threatened to overwhelm her. She stood up, gathering the clothes in her arms, and breathing deeply. 

She walked down the stairs to the main living area, and looked at Clegane, laying on the sofa. Sansa inhaled deeply, urging herself not to speak coldly when she opened her mouth.

She cleared her throat. “I thought maybe you’d want to change clothes? I found some of my father’s old pyjamas, and they might not fit you, but they’d be warmer than what you’ve got on. I figured I’d ask.”

“What?” Clegane murmured, barely raising his head. 

“I said-,” Sansa began and then stopped. Clegane’s eyes were glazed over, his cheeks flushed pink and his short hair slicked with sweat against his forehead. How had his condition changed so rapidly? Or had it been like this the whole time and Sansa hadn’t noticed as they argued?

She walked over and held her hand to his forehead. His skin was hot and slick with sweat. Clegane’s eyes were clenched shut, and every so often he would shiver. Sansa’s heartbeat quickened with anxiety. She _was_ supposed to sweat a fever out, wasn’t she? Or was she completely wrong and slowly killing him?

With panic slowly creeping up her spine, Sansa removed the top blanket from Clegane despite his weary protests. She found a cloth in the linen closet in her bathroom, and dampened it with cold water, holding it to Clegane’s forehead. He tried to shrink away from the cold cloth, but Sansa persisted. 

“It’s okay, I know it’s cold, I know,” she said soothingly, taken back to the days of helping her mother care for Bran after his accident. 

Clegane groaned again. Sansa ran her hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back, before replacing the cold cloth there. She stood and filled a bowl with cold water from the kitchen and resumed her spot kneeling before him. She held the cloth to his face, and then pulled the blanket down, exposing his chest and running the cloth underneath his undershirt as well.

Clegane was incoherent, at one-point grabbing Sansa’s upper arm and holding it as she worked to cool him. She figured it was out of dislike for the cold water.

She alternated between murmuring nonsense platitudes and singing quietly to Clegane. She sang songs her mother had once sung, lullabies and songs she heard on the record player at home. 

The whole time Sansa worked, she was taken back to the days of caring for Bran, remembered how she had sung for him too, and how sure she was that he would die. The feeling was plaguing her again as she worked over Clegane. Unlikeable as he was, she did not want him to die.

Sansa changed the bowl of water out four times over the night. She thought that maybe his fever had broken, but she was unsure, and the stress of it kept her awake through the night.

She woke up bleary and confused round noon, her head resting on folded arms on the sofa. Sansa jolted upright, agitating a crick in her neck. _You shouldn’t have fallen asleep. What if he died?_ She blinked hard, letting her eyes focus. She was kneeling in front of the sofa still, her legs folded under her and numb.

“Alright, girl?” Clegane asked, from the kitchen. He was pouring two cups of tea, standing in only his undergarments. His white undershirt was sweat stained around the chest and underarms, and his hair was mussed.

Sansa averted her gaze, instead staring at Lady, curled next to her. “I- yes, of course. Are _you_ alright? Your fever was so high, and you seemed a bit dazed and I thought it wouldn’t break-.”

“Aye girl, I’m alright,” Clegane said, holding out the cup of tea to her.

“But you feel better?” Sansa rose shakily to her feet, her legs buzzing with pins and needles from resting on them all night. She took one of the cups from him. “Let me feel your head,” she said, lifting a hand to his brow. 

“Crissakes,” he said, batting her hand away as he sat on the sofa. “You're like a little bird, fluttering about.”

Sansa didn’t smile, still standing and looking at him closely. He was no longer so sweaty, and his face had returned to an appropriate color. “Let me just check,” Sansa said, stepping in front of Clegane. He looked up at her with amused grey eyes. She hardly noticed his scars anymore. “Please, Mr. Clegane. Let me check.”

“It’s just Clegane, little bird. Mr. Clegane was my father.”

Sansa’s chest tightened at the nickname. She held her hand out to Clegane’s forehead, not yet touching his skin. They made eye contact, Sansa searching for permission. Clegane rolled his eyes.

“Go on then,” he said. Sansa rested her hand on his forehead. He was warm, yes, but not feverish. _Thank you, Lord._

“I think your fever is passed. The worst of it, at least. You had me a bit frightened,” Sansa said, settling down into an armchair. She sipped her tea. 

“And why were you worried? If I remember, you ‘ _will not have a deserter in your house_ ,’” Clegane said. 

“That doesn’t mean I wanted you to die,” Sansa said quietly, pulling her knees up onto the armchair. She smoothed her nightgown out over her legs, keeping some modesty. Though, modesty was probably irrelevant, Sansa thought, considering Clegane was strolling about her home in just his undershirt and shorts.

“Is that so little bird?”

“Yes.”

Clegane grunted and drank his tea.

“I was thinking, I found some of my father’s old pyjamas, you might want a bath and change of clothes?” Sansa asked again, revisiting the question she had intended to ask the night before.

“Your father’s dead then?”

Sansa’s veins grew cold, her face moved to stone. “Yes. He is.”

“The war?”

“Yes.”

Clegane stood with some effort, walking over to the kitchen to leave his cup. “And still you support the war?”

The ice in her veins melted into a boil. Sansa stood and strode over to where Clegane stood, placing her cup down hard on the countertop. She stood just in front of him, glaring. “ _Of course I do_ ,” she hissed. “Or did you forget that it’s _our_ towns being bombed; _our_ people being killed?” Clegane looked at her quietly as she went on. “What would you have us do if not fight?”

“That’s all well and good little bird. Fiery as the hair then, eh?” Clegane began to inspect her tiny kitchen, opening cupboards and examining shelves. The action as well as the comments set Sansa on edge.

Sansa said nothing, her lips pressed together. She watched his movement with narrowed eyes, her face and neck warming with anger. 

He stopped in his movement, slowly turning away from the cupboards to face Sansa. “I told you girl. Fuck the war. Fuck the country. I don’t want anything to do with any of it.”

Sansa’s anger flared. _Like Jon or Robb wanted anything to do with it? Like_ anyone _wanted to go to war?_ “Then you’re a coward. You’re a coward, and you’re selfish.”

Clegane’s eyes narrowed, his full height becoming obvious once more. “Perhaps, girl. But at least I’m not dead.”

Sansa’s hackles rose, her body tense. “Why must you be so cruel?” she asked, her voice tight and clipped.

Clegane said nothing. Sansa glared at him once more, before whistling for Lady and walking up the steps to her room. She slammed the door behind her, feeling childlike and bitter, and let her tears fall freely.


	3. A White Button-down Shirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you all again for your lovely feedback on this story so far. Your kudos and comments seriously brighten my days, dorky as it sounds. I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

The next day, Sansa woke early, dressed, and silently descended the staircase. Clegane was asleep on the couch still, one arm hanging toward the floor. She took in his large weathered frame, frowning. He was rather handsome, at least on his good side, in a masculine, hardened sort of way. He certainly was not like the lean clean-cut boys she was accustomed to. 

He was not her first choice for company, but maybe her former choices weren’t the best, either. _You mustn’t blame yourself. Joffrey was a talented liar._

Sansa sat on the bottom step of the stairs and laced her shoes. The only time she wore shoes that weren’t slippers or rubber boots was when she went into town. She wore her lace up boots when she made the trek. Sansa quietly pushed the wooden door open and moved to close it behind her, nudging Lady gently back inside. The dog whined indignantly, trying to poke her head out of the front door. “Shh, go to Clegane,” Sansa whispered, gently pushing Lady back in the house and closing the door with a heavy tug. 

Sansa turned to look at the sea, inhaling the thick salty air. _There is nothing so refreshing,_ she thought, watching the ocean foam and bubble as the waves slammed into the rocky cliffs. 

She began her walk to town along the weathered footpath she had created over time, passing her raised vegetable gardens and the patches where spring flowers would grow next year. It seemed Sansa had discovered the one spot of Britain least affected by the war. No buildings crushed to pebbles, no soldiers roaming the streets. In most ways, she was grateful, but it also made her wary. Her beautiful town was almost too good to be true, the fantasy fit to be broken at any moment with the hum of the planes. 

Her walk, though not arduous, was nearly a kilometer long, and unpleasant in winter months. Sansa was grateful for the lingering October warmth. The first thing she spotted as she reached the crest of a small hill was the church steeple, reaching impressively high, though not so high as her lighthouse. If Sansa turned around, she would still see the top half of the tower, the glass lamphouse at the top a guide, even in daylight. It was near impossible for her to stray so far as to lose sight of her home. 

The second thing Sansa always noticed was the port, on the east side of town, where the aging fishermen and their wives all accumulated, organized around rows of tables with all sorts of various fish. There used to be many more rows of tables, and many more young fishermen. The ruckus that radiated from the eastern ports was duller now was well. It made the town seem more like it was sleeping. 

Sansa’s first stop was the one she was dreading most. _They're for my younger brother, they’re for my brother, my brother is in need of some new clothes-_

The door jingled as she opened it, entering the small, men’s clothing shop. The shopkeeper smiled at her, looking up from what he was writing in his ledger. He was rather large, and bald, and very well dressed. Sansa had never seen him before, though, she had never before had cause to shop for men’s clothing. “Alright my dear?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Sansa responded, smiling gently. She glanced around the shop. It was filled floor to ceiling with shelves of folded slacks and shirts and sweaters, with some of the more finely made clothing hanging from racks in the center of the shop. Shoes lined the wall behind the shopkeeper’s counter and sat in boxes atop the many rows of shelves. It was all a bit overwhelming. 

Sansa gravitated toward a couple folded stacks of plain white button-down shirts, and grabbed the one furthest bottom, and held it up for inspection. It was a lucky pull, twice her size, and probably just large enough for Clegane. 

She did not take too much time deliberating, grabbing the most suitable trousers she could find. As she held the shirt and a new pair of dark brown trousers in one arm, she browsed the rack for the cheapest coat they had, one coated in wax, made to be waterproof. It was dark blue, and stiff, and would have to do. Sansa passed the clothes to the shopkeeper to pay. 

“I do adore a man in a white shirt,” the shopkeeper said, writing the purchases down. Sansa retained her giggle of shock as best she could.

“Ah- yes, it is quite… flattering,” she said, feeling her face flush with warmth. The idea of Clegane in that way made her breath quicken unpleasantly. “Could I also have those please?” Sansa asked, pointing to a pair of brown laced boots behind the bald man.

“What size, my dear?” he asked, smiling kindly. 

“The largest size you have.”

The bell of the door chimed, and the two glanced at the newcomer.

Sansa’s heart dropped to her belly. “Sansa! What a wonderful surprise. What brings you here my love?” Petyr Baelish asked, smiling charmingly. His charm was only surface though, Sansa knew that well.

“Oh, just picking up a bit of shopping for the little ones,” Sansa said, taking her package from the shopkeeper. The man had wrapped everything in parchment, except for the boots, which he placed on the counter.

“Could I have the shoes wrapped as well?” she asked the man, barely concealing her anxiety.

She turned her focus back to Petyr, calmly repacking her change into her coin purse, and slipping it back into her pocket. 

“I see. Is their nanny not outfitting them well then?” Petyr asked, glancing behind the shopkeeper’s counter. Sansa schooled her face into cool neutrality. _Like you care, you bastard._

_“_ Osha is a wonderful governess, though I do enjoy sending the boys gifts when occasion allows,” Sansa said, smiling gently. The shopkeeper passed the shoes over the counter toward her, the boots now boxed and wrapped. Sansa mentally exhaled.

“Ah. And what is the occasion, if I might ask?” Petyr asked, curiosity painted across his face.

“I wanted to.” Sansa smiled demurely at Petyr once more. “Well, it’s been a pleasure as always, Petyr. I must be getting on now.” She nodded at the shopkeeper, and brushed past Petyr, the jingle of the door drowning out whatever his response was.

He never failed to make Sansa’s blood rush cold. Perhaps he intended to disguise his interest in Sansa, but his eyes always roamed her body, giving him away.

She took her time walking through town, stopping by the bookstore, butchers, and grocer, slowly beginning her walk back home just before noon. 

She enjoyed her trips to town, and would have spent more time chatting with the various shopkeepers, had she not been fretting over Clegane. Cruel and hateful as he was, she did not want him to be found out and executed. _At this point, you’re an accomplice,_ she thought, the weight of his clothes growing heavy in her arms.

_What would father say if he discovered you like this? Harboring a deserter? Dressing him, feeding him, for God’s sake, caring for him all night during his fever?_

But her father would not find out. Because as Clegane reminded her, her father was dead.

As Sansa grew closer to her home, the lighthouse grew larger, more impressive before her. It was striped in large ribbons or gray and white, the top lamphouse made of glass. If she walked closer to the lighthouse, there on the left she would see the rocky descent down to the beach, where she found Clegane. 

Sansa pushed her front door open with one shoulder, her arms full of various packages. A hand grabbed her upper arm violently, pulling her into the home where she was face to face with a sharp blade. She gasped and dropped her goods in shock, one hand coming up automatically to shield her face. 

Clegane let out a breath of air he was holding, and let go of her almost immediately, closing the butterfly knife and shoving it into his pocket. Sansa vaguely noticed he was wearing his uniform pants, but still just the white undershirt. She stepped away from him, rubbing her arm and glaring, her mouth slightly open in shock. “Have you lost your damn mind?” she asked, staring at Clegane.

“Sorry girl. Shouldn’t startle an old dog like that.”

“How was- I obviously wasn’t _trying_ to scare you! Were you planning to stab me?” Sansa said angrily, her voice raising in irritation. She glared at him once more, and crouched down to begin gathering her shopping. 

Clegane joined her on the floor, picking up whatever she didn’t. He reached for the wrapped clothes at the same time as Sansa, brushing hands with her. He didn’t pull away, instead loosely wrapping his hand around her wrist. “Forgive me little bird. I wouldn’t have stabbed you. I didn’t know you had gone to town.” 

She glanced up at him, his eyes serious and clear. Her skin grew warm, and she wondered dreadfully if her cheeks and neck were going pink. _Have_ you _lost your mind Sansa? He just nearly stabbed you._ “Well,” she said, standing up. “Perhaps next time I’ll tell you. But really, Clegane, that’s not a way to answer the door. You nearly gave me heart failure.”

Sansa began to sort through the bags and wrapped goods, placing things in the cupboards and ice boxes. “I got you a few things,” Sansa said, her voice calm and clear. In truth, she was nervous. Buying a man clothes felt… strangely intimate. “They’re wrapped in the white paper.” She turned to watch him open the wrapping, her heart thumping noisily as she did so.

For a man of his rough demeanor, he was very gentle in his opening of the clothes. Sansa leaned against the kitchen counter, chewing the inside of her lip as she watched him, her hands wrapped around the counter edge. 

He placed the package on the table as he held up the white shirt, then the trousers, and the jacket and boots. Clegane looked up at her, face blank and unreadable. _Yes, it most certainly was too much, and now he finds you strange._

Not that it mattered. He was a deserter still. 

“This is more than I deserve little bird,” he said. It was not an exact _thank you,_ but it was more than Sansa had expected. 

“I thought you may like a bath as well,” Sansa said, turning back to finish putting the food away. “There’s towels in the linen closet in the bathroom,” she said, glancing back at Clegane.

He was still studying the clothes, running his hands over the buttons of the shirt. “I hope they fit,” Sansa said quietly. 

“Aye, little bird. I’m sure they will,” he said, taking up the clothes and walking into the tiny bathroom. 

Sansa blinked hard, waking out of her trancelike state as Clegane shut the door. What had gotten into her? The noise of running water made her blush, as she imagined him undressing, sliding into the water, his body large compared to the tub.

She walked into the living room, and pushed the lacy curtains aside, unlatching the window and lifting it a bit. The cool humid air swept into the room, the salt from the ocean spray filling Sansa’s lungs. It had been too long since she had company. It was no wonder she was growing attached. She knelt in front of the window, watching the sea spray up over the rocks near the beach.

The water stopped with an abrupt wrenching noise, and Sansa held her breath as Clegane groaned. _Perhaps his muscles are sore,_ Sansa thought, her breaths growing shallow. _Perhaps you’re going mad._

Sansa rested her head against the windowsill, mind churning. It had been sometime since she had touched a man, she did not remember how to interact with them it seemed. 

Lady nudged Sansa’s hand, leaning into her to be pet. She stroked the dog’s head, still staring out at the dramatic crashing of the waves. 

Her mind wandered to her interactions in the shops, the lingering eye of Petyr, his leering at her shopping.

_He saw nothing. He knows nothing,_ Sansa told herself. _Maybe he saw the shoes, but that means nothing._ Though Petyr had an uncanny knowledge of the workings of the town, her lighthouse was out of his reach. 

Sansa rose to her feet, patting Lady as she dislodged the dog’s lounging. She opened a kitchen cupboard and pulled a teacup down, realizing that Clegane had already put the kettle on, and there was a half-finished cup of tea sitting on the counter.

She smiled a little at that, the image of such a large man fixing a cup of tea pleasant to imagine. Sansa lowered her face to the cup and inhaled, the scent of earl grey a comfort.

The kettle was still hot, and Sansa made herself a cup, wondering vaguely if she should have picked up a different type of tea. She only ever bought earl grey, as that was all she ever drank. 

_He’s a deserter, Sansa. He’s not staying._

She sipped from her cup, frowning. He would soon need to leave- but how, and to where? Her thoughts were interrupted by the noisy draining of the bathtub. Sansa listened, transfixed in the kitchen, as Clegane dried and dressed himself in the bathroom, her ears sensitive to the sound of water dripping off his body, the rustle of the clothes as he put them on. 

She could envision his actions perfectly, could imagine him rubbing the towel over his wet hair, running it down his huge arms- his chest, lower and lower. Sansa took a clumsy gulp from her teacup, the tea spilling over the sides onto her hands. 

She cursed and turned, reaching for a towel to dry her hands, only to hear the bathroom door wrench open. Sansa froze, busying her hands, wiping them on the towel, even after they were dry. She listened as Clegane moved into the main room, though not sitting.

“Good bath?” Sansa asked, voice wretchedly high pitched. _Compose yourself._ She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with courage, and turned around to face Clegane.

He was beautiful. It seemed a strange word to associate with someone so horribly deformed, but it was the only word Sansa could think of. And it was true.

His hair was wet, water droplets hanging onto tiny strands, falling onto his shoulders, marking his white shirt. The shirt fit him, yes, but snugly. It was stretched tight against his chest and arms, the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to half his forearms. Sansa swallowed stupidly.

“See somethin’ you like little bird?” he asked, smirking. He would have looked charming, probably, if the smirk did not stretch his scarred mouth so unpleasantly. Sansa thought it might still look charming.

“I- no- just.” Sansa glared, looking at Clegane fully. “It’s a nice change to see you clean.”

Clegane smirked again, walking slowly toward her. His footsteps felt heavy, ominous, as he approached. Sansa’s mouth went dry, but she had the good sense to keep her mouth shut, a grace from God allowing her to keep some dignity. 

He made it arm’s length, so uncomfortably close, before he stopped. Sansa was forced to tilt her head up to look at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

Sansa swallowed. “What?” she breathed, frightened to move too quickly or speak too loudly for fear of shattering the moment.

Clegane reached his arm past her waist, his fingers just brushing her blouse, before his hand landed on his abandoned teacup. Sansa breathed out shakily, ridiculously, as Clegane took a sip from the cup. He said nothing, just smiled, and raised the cup to her in a toast. Sansa frowned at him, brushing nonexistent dust from her clothes. 

“Right then,” she said, scowling. “I see the clothes fit.” This was partly untrue, she realized, as she frowned at the floor. Clegane’s ankles were comically exposed, his large feet made more conspicuous. “Mostly.”

“Aye.” Clegane sat the teacup down on the kitchen table and made his way over to where his uniform was still slung over the back of a chair. “Thank you.”

Sansa smiled softly. “You're welcome.” 


	4. A Restless Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your amazing feedback last chapter. I hope you enjoy this one just as much. Happy reading! :)

Sansa laid in bed that night, having finished lighting the lamp. Her quilt felt heavy to her body, uncomfortable and clinging. Lady rested at the foot of her bed, her weight, normally comforting, now only amplified Sansa’s feeling of restriction. 

She felt restless, and imagined Clegane leaving as she stared at the ceiling. Where would he go? And why did it bother her so much? _He is a deserter, Sansa. You cannot trust him._

Despite telling herself that Clegane was no good, she could not bring herself to feel it genuinely. He was coarse, yes, and sometimes cruel, but the idea of him wandering around, alone in the English countryside, was unpleasant, upsetting.

_It’s because you simply don’t want him to die. Do not over complicate things, Sansa._

Sansa threw the covers off her body, disturbing Lady, who perked up from her position at the end of the bed. She gave Lady a pat as she stood, wrapping herself in her dressing gown, not bothering with house slippers. She opened the bedroom door, which she now left unlocked, and began to quietly walk down the stairs.

_Only a glass of water, and then straight back to bed._ Her home was dim, though light came flooding in every few seconds with the turn of the lamp, washing the living space in yellow. Sansa crept across her wood floors to the small kitchen, reluctant to make any noise. She glanced at the sofa, where Clegane slept. 

“Wh- oh,” she said in surprise. There was no Clegane sprawled over her sofa. With a quick glance around the room, she noticed he had left his soldier’s clothes across the chair, but everything else was gone.

_Has he left without saying goodbye?_ Sansa wondered, her chest constricting. _Perhaps that would be better._ Sansa took a glass from a cupboard and filled it with water, taking a sip as she took a closer look at Clegane’s uniform. 

It was huge, that was certain, green in the typical English sort. The fabric was coarse between her fingers, and littered with small holes, their edges burnt. It looked like someone held a cigarette to the uniform, leaving little marks all over the left sleeve, and again on the pants. There were patches where the uniform had obviously been mended, the lines of stitches untidy. Sansa placed her glass down and picked up the uniform with both hands, squeezing the fabric.

As Sansa stood there holding the uniform, she felt tears well up, her throat growing tight and clogged. What were Robb and Jon suffering while they fought? What had her father experienced leading up to his execution? _His murder._ Sansa’s fists grew tight in the fabric, tears falling onto it. _You should not hate the war so completely. It killed Joffrey._

Sansa dropped the fabric onto the chair, straightening and wiping her face with her sleeve. She glanced up out the window as a huge ray of light moved across the land and sea. A male figure was silhouetted, facing the sea, arms crossed over his chest. Her heart lightened almost immediately, embarrassingly so, at the realization that he had not left without saying goodbye.

Sansa made for the door, sliding her bare feet into her rubber boots. The sensation was unpleasant, but she couldn’t be bothered to go upstairs for socks. She closed the door quietly behind her, stepping out into the clear night. It was unseasonably warm for October, the air still and thick. Clegane stood facing the sea, still and sturdy. 

“Can’t sleep little bird?” Clegane called out without turning. Sansa smiled, walking to stand next to him. 

“No. I see you can’t either,” she said, taking him in. His hair was growing longer than the expected soldier’s crop. Sansa followed his gaze to the sea, the waves crashing viciously against the cliffs, and periodically, the lighthouse would bathe everything in harsh light, nearly blinding at first. It was beautiful. “They don’t ever get old,” she said.

Clegane glanced down at her. “The waves,” she explained. “They never stop being beautiful.” Clegane grunted in response. “Where will you go?” she asked.

“I don’t know girl. America, maybe. Somewhere without a fucking war.”

“America is in the war,” Sansa said, frowning.

“They're less touched by it.” 

She hummed in agreement. “Do you want to see something?” Sansa asked.

Clegane glanced down at her. “Alright then.”

Sansa tilted her head towards the beach and began to make her way down to the rocky shore, following the same path she took that night Clegane washed ashore. The rocks rattled under her boots as she walked on the beach, the noise familiar and comforting. The noise of the waves grew louder, coming up towards her, though she didn’t let the water touch her feet.

“This what you wanted to show me little bird?” Clegane asked, gesturing toward the ocean. “Hate to tell you, but I’m quite accustomed.”

“No, come on then,” Sansa said, walking down the beach, along the coast. She directed Clegane up a small scramble of boulders, piled high and slick with water. She was careful not to step on her dressing gown, which was damp with ocean spray, and clinging to her body unpleasantly. Sansa didn’t much notice it however, too distracted by her goal.

When they reached the top of the piled rocks, she stood, and looked out over the sea. Her and Clegane were situated intimately close to the water. The waves came crashing up the boulder where they stood, but only the spray would touch them. 

When she was alone, Sansa often would sit with her feet hanging off the boulder, and the sea would only just graze the tips of her toes. She was untouchable, as close to the ocean as she could be without being in it.

Sansa sat down, folding her legs to the side and pulling her nightgown over her knees, now also damp under her dressing robe. “This is my favorite spot,” Sansa said, gesturing vaguely around her. Clegane stood, looking out at the ocean, before sitting beside her.

“S’ a good spot,” he said. The comment warmed Sansa’s chest. They sat like that, side by side, in silence for a bit. The sky was clear that night, though Sansa could only barely see the stars, them being hidden by the bright revolving light of the lighthouse.

Clegane broke the silence first. “Do you want to know how I got this girl?” he asked, pointing to his scars.

“If you want to tell me,” Sansa responded. Clegane didn’t answer for a minute, and she began to worry that she should not have said that.

“When I was a boy, my brother, Gregor, caught me playing with a toy that was his. It was some… little toy soldier or something, I don’t remember. He was too old to care about it, by then he was fourteen or fifteen.” Clegane stared out at the British coast, his strong profile still. “He caught me playing with it, and then without a word or anything, he grabbed me and held my face down in the fireplace. I remember screaming and screaming, and him just… holding me there. Don’t remember why he stopped, or how they got him off me. But I remember screaming.” His face didn’t change expression. He held the stoicism of a man long acclimated to his past.

Sansa wiped her face on her sleeve, absently noticing that tears were streaming down her cheeks, down her throat. Her lungs ached from unconsciously holding her breath.

“I woke up maybe a week later, my face all wrapped up. The doctor came to our house. Wouldn’t let me look in the mirror for a while. My father told everyone that my sheets caught fire, to protect Gregor.”

Sansa laid a hand on Clegane’s forearm. “I am so sorry. That’s horrible- your own brother- I can’t imagine,” she said.

“Aye little bird, he was a cruel bastard.”

“He’s dead?”

“Aye. The one thing the war gave me to be thankful for.”

Sansa immediately thought of Joffrey. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you. That he did that to you,” she said.

“You and I both, little bird,” Clegane said to the sea.

*

That next morning, Sansa made them both a cup of tea before she began her chores. She planned to give the windows in the lamphouse a wipe down, and wore her stained work clothes for the occasion. 

Her fingers grazed Clegane’s as she handed him the cup, and she smiled at how his hand dwarfed the cup. 

“When do you want me out little bird?” he asked, surprising Sansa with his blunt words.

“Um- I don’t know. I haven’t thought much on it.”

“Oh, I doubt that. If I recall you were hellbent on this deserter leaving your home as soon as possible.”

Sansa swallowed, staring into her tea mug, watching tiny leaf fragments float about. “Yes, well. I struggle with the logistics of your leaving.”

“Give me a rowboat and some food and water. I can do the rest on my own.”

“And then what? You paddle your way to America?”

He huffed in irritation, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “No girl. I’d go North of here, find work, buy passage to America.”

Sansa stared at him blankly for a moment. “That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

Clegane’s eyes widened at her. “Oh? And what would you have me do then, clever girl?”

“Well if that’s your plan, why wouldn’t you just stay here? Work in this town? There’s a shortage of strong men, what with the war, and I know you’d find something.”

“The presence of a deserter in your town wouldn’t be too much for you to handle, eh?” Clegane asked, smirking at her.

Sansa raised an eyebrow, appraising Clegane. “I think I can manage it. What will you tell people?”

“That I was in the war. Discharged for my injury.”

Sansa did not have to ask what he meant. “You don’t think you would be found out?”

“Look at me Sansa. Look at my face. No one will doubt me.”

Sansa’s breath caught at her name on his tongue. “I suppose not.” She coughed in discomfort, breaking the tension she had created in her mind. “Well that’s the plan then isn’t it?”

“Aye it is,” Clegane said, face hardening. “I’ll go out today then, look for work.”

“Right. And you’ll stay here, until you do so?” Sansa asked, her voice rising with the question. _Pull yourself together, girl_. 

“Is that what you want little bird?” Clegane asked. 

Sansa glanced into her teacup, feeling her face redden. “Yes. That seems the best option, doesn’t it?” In truth, she did not know if that was the best option. She did not genuinely care at all, but the idea of Clegane leaving, living somewhere else, was suddenly very uncomfortable for her. _It’s simply because you’re lonely,_ she told herself. _Or maybe you care for him, you idiot,_ another voice said. The voice sounded strangely like Arya’s. 

She met Clegane’s grey eyes with her own. He was staring fully back at her, his eyes looking for something in her own. _To see if you're lying._ She looked back unflinchingly, though her cheeks were flushed.

“Alright. That’s what we’ll do then.” Clegane said. 


	5. A Deserter in a Seaside Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your amazing response to this story. I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

Clegane set out for town after they ate a small breakfast of toast and jam with tea. Sansa stood on her doorstep and pointed out the narrow footpath that would take him to the quiet main street, and watched him until he departed over the crest of the hill. As she stood there, Sansa was taken back to a moment, one not too long past, while simultaneously feeling like it was ages ago. 

Sansa stood at the train station, holding her mother’s hand as they watched the train pass them, carrying her brothers to the countryside, to live with Osha, their governess, away from the firebombs and death plaguing their country. Her mother held her head high, though she wept silently, her tears dripping from her face and falling onto the collar of her gray wool coat. 

The two women had kissed Bran and Rickon goodbye, had made them swear to look out for one another, and write often. Her mother tucked a letter to Osha into Bran’s coat pocket, made him promise not to forget to give her it upon his arrival. 

The next day, Sansa left for a seaside town she had never visited, to man a lighthouse passed through her mother’s family. While her Uncle Edmure fought in the war, Sansa would take over the lighthouse he had called home before her. She’d be far from the trouble in London, her mother made sure of that.

Her mother died in a firebombing two days after that.

Sansa wiped her face of her fresh tears and turned to go back into her home. Daily chores seemed to drone on that day, and she couldn’t help but check the clock often. Sansa could barely focus on anything, her mind drifting toward thoughts of Clegane, wondering if he had found a job, if he had been discovered as a deserter, if he would come back. She believed he would come back if he was able, felt it in her bones. _But if he was discovered…._

When Sansa wasn’t thinking of Clegane, her thoughts went toward her siblings, anxiety plaguing every sweet memory she had of them, fear that memories would become _all_ she had of them. She gave up on her plans for the day of doing the laundry wash, reasoning that she ought to wait for Clegane’s dirty clothes, and the fact that her mind was rendering her useless. Sansa made herself a cup of tea and sat in her armchair, Lady laying across her feet as she held an unread book in her hands, the ticking clock providing background music.

Around five o’clock, Sansa forced herself to stand and start making dinner, skinning potatoes to serve roasted with chicken. She listened to the slow, methodical strokes she made with her knife, her gaze wandering up to the window over the kitchen as she peeled the potatoes. The wind was picking up outside, causing the waves to blow over prematurely, the crash of the sea kicking up white spray. Sansa set down her knife and opened the window, driven by the sudden urge to hear the ocean clearly. 

Salty mist blew in the window near immediately, along with the deafening noise of the ocean. Lady perked up at the change from where she lounged in front of the wood burning stove. She whined briefly and set her head ack down on her paws. Lady’s unease in turn made Sansa uncomfortable, for no proper reason. 

“Shh, Lady, it’s just the waves,” Sansa said shortly. She shook her head at her silliness, suddenly displeased with the idea of sleeping in the lighthouse alone. _You always sleep alone,_ she told herself. _Even if Clegane does return, you should be accustomed to this._ Sansa picked her knife back up and resumed cutting the potatoes, enough for two. 

A large wave crashed, startling her, and Sansa’s knife slipped too far toward her hand, slicing a long gash into her pointer finger. _“Damn!”_ she swore, dropping the knife and potato to the counter. The knife bounced and slid off the counter, clattering to the tiled floor and narrowly missing Sansa’s bare foot. 

“Christ,” she muttered to herself, cradling her injured hand, now bleeding steadily. It stung quite sharply, the rest of her hand warm and sticky with her own blood. It dripped onto the floor, and Sansa swallowed, steadying herself. “Okay,” she said, bending down to pick up the knife. Lady had come over to see what the commotion was, and sat in the entrance of the kitchen, watching Sansa with a sharp eye. 

Lady’s head turned toward the door and barked once before it turned into a low growl, rising to stand. Sansa’s heart began to beat painfully, her eyes widening as she still clenched her hand. She listened as her blood seeped through her closed fist and hit the ground in quiet drops. 

The front door opened with a wrench, and Clegane came to stand in the doorway, his large stature filling it entirely. Sansa immediately exhaled, relief sweeping her. _Who else would it have been?_

She laughed shakily, her good hand raising to her chest. “Oh. You startled me,” she said, smiling at him.

Clegane shut the door behind him and gave Lady a pat as she came to eagerly sniff him. “You ought to bolt the door when you’re alone, he said, raising his eyes from Lady to take her in. His eyes widened as he witnessed the blood on the ground, his eyes moving up to glance her over. He walked to her, stopping centimeters from her and grabbing her wrist. “What happened?” he asked, voice husky and serious. 

“Ah it’s nothing, I just cut myself while making dinner. Happened just a minute ago,” she said, wrist growing warm where he held it. She glanced up at him, seeing him properly from the first time that day. His hair, now long enough to run a hand through, seemed held back by dried sweat. His clothes looked worn in, like they had been properly used, and he had some dampness, a small amount now drying, beneath his arms and across his chest. His shirt was unbuttoned down to the top of his undershirt, exposing dark chest hair. _Christ he’s huge,_ Sansa thought, cheeks warming at her own realization. 

Clegane pulled her over to the sink and held her hand under the running water. “ _Ah_ ,” she hissed, reflexively trying to pull her hand away as it stung her cut. Clegane held firm, his vise on her wrist unbreaking. “That stings,” she said. 

“Well perhaps you should be more careful,” Clegane said, focused on her hand. “Keep it here,” he ordered, and released her. Despite the still lingering pain, Sansa stayed in place, cold water stinging her hand. Clegane began opening cupboards, searching. 

“What are you looking for?” Sansa asked. 

“A clean rag,” he said. She pointed towards their location, and he grabbed one, and turned the faucet off. He took her wrist again, pulling her hand toward him, palm up.

“It’s really not that-,” she started.

“Don’t want you bleedin’ all over the place,” he said as he wrapped her injured finger, securing the rag by wrapping it over her palm and knotting it. He did this clinically, with practiced hands, but Sansa found herself entranced by the action, her eyes following his fingers. They were rough on her skin, calloused from years of hard work, but she found she rather liked the unfamiliar feel. Joffrey’s hands were soft, and the idea of being touched by hands like that again made her feel ill. 

Clegane’s hands stilled, still holding her around the wrist. “There. Good as new,” he said, touching the center of her palm with one finger. He looked up at her finally, making eye contact. “Are you okay?” he asked her, thick brows furrowed over grey eyes.

“Good as new,” Sansa whispered. She cleared her throat. “Thank you. Um.” Sansa pulled herself away from him, glancing around her kitchen. There were drops of blood splattered on the floor, and dinner still wasn’t ready. “I’ll just clean this up.” She grabbed a rag off the countertop and ran it under the sink, sinking to her knees to scrub the floor. A much larger hand dwarfed her own, taking the rag from her. She glanced up, brow furrowed.

“Let me,” Clegane said. “Make a cuppa or something. Let me.”

Sansa looked up at him, at this man crouched on her bloodied kitchen floor with her, trying to take a rag out of her hand. She swallowed. “Okay. Um. I’ll just finish dinner then.” She rose to her feet, still staring at this man on her floor. She was a tall woman herself, but even on his knees, he’d likely reach her chest. 

“Don’t go hacking into your hand then this time, yeah?” Clegane said, glancing up to grin at her. 

She closed her open hanging mouth. “Right then,” she said, turning back to the meal she was preparing. It was slower going than she would have liked, as she was impeded by her bandaged hand, but she got everything in the oven without further injury. By the time she had finished, Clegane had cleaned the floor, removed his buttoned shirt, and now stood in his undershirt, holding out a cup of tea to her that he had made. 

“Thank you,” Sansa said, smiling up at him. He clinked her cup of tea with his own, in a sober sort of toast. 

“Aye, little bird,” he said, easing himself back onto the sofa. Sansa sat across from him in her armchair, sipping her tea while their dinner cooked. 

“Oh!” she cried, clapping her injured hand to her mouth. “I completely forgot! How did it go today?” Sansa asked, leaning forward toward Clegane. 

He smiled at her, slowly taking a drink from his tea, stretching out her hopeful silence. “It went well. Got a job with the shipbuilder’s company.” 

“Oh!” she said again, loudly. “That’s wonderful! When do you start?”

“I started today. S’why I was gone all day. Monday through Friday it is.”

Sansa smiled broadly at him. “Brilliant, Clegane. And you like it?”

“Aye. Hard work, not much thinking involved. Get to work with my hands. I like that.” 

Sansa smiled. “Good.”

They ate dinner at the table, listening to the chaotic storm beginning outside. Sansa’s eyes wandered to the windows, reminded of the night she found Clegane. “Will you tell me how you got here?” she asked.

Clegane grunted, took another bite of chicken. “Already told you little bird. Deserted. Want nothin’ to do with the war.”

“I know that. But how did you get _here_?”

Clegane took a drink from his glass of water like it was wine. “We were in France. Called the Battle of Blackwater, where we were. We were fucked. Outnumbered two to one. And then the firebombing started. Looked like the water was on fire. I didn’t stay to see how things turned out. I turned tail and ran.”

Sansa said nothing, waiting for him to continue. 

“Found a boat. That worked for a bit. Made my way across the English Channel. Then the storm hit and knocked me out of the boat. I thought that was it, but I was still grateful that I hadn’t burned to death instead.” He sighed, looking up from his plate into Sansa’s eyes. “Then I saw your light. From the lighthouse. Swam best I could towards it, washed up on your beach. You know the rest.”

“I’m glad you followed the light,” Sansa said. 

“Aye, me too little bird.”

Clegane came with her that evening to light the lamphouse. He held the gas lamp ahead of them, leading the way though he had never walked the steps before. His presence was huge in the narrow corridor, his shadow cast against the stone wall, reaching up into the darkness. 

“Do you know a man named Baelish?” Clegane asked, interrupting the comfortable silence they had established.

Sansa reached for the wall, one hand coming to the collar of her shirt. “Yes, I do. Did you meet him?”

“Aye. He came to the shipyard while I was working. Seemed very interested about my origins,” Clegane said, turning to look at her. She was frozen, her hand still pressed against the stone as she felt her heart race. 

“And what did you say?” she asked.

“I told him I was discharged from the war. S’all. What are you so worried about little bird?” he held the lantern up in the stairwell, illuminating Sansa’s face in golden light.

She squinted at him, the light blinding her from seeing his face. “I don’t trust him. He knows everything about everyone. Do not say anything to him that he can… use against you.”

“I’m not worried about him little bird. What can the man do to me?”

Sansa reached out and grabbed Clegane’s wrist, forcing the lantern down between them as she took another step toward him. “ _You do not understand._ He could ruin you, could have you arrested if he decided to. He looks… small, unintimidating, I know, but he has money, and he’s clever, and he’s unstoppable when he chooses to be. _Do not trust him._ ”

Clegane looked her over, taking in her harried expression, the steel grip she held his wrist in. He nodded. “Alright Sansa. I won’t trust the man.” Her vise on his wrist loosened, and he brought the lamp up slightly, enough to see her face again. “Has he done something? To you?”

“No. Nothing- nothing like that. He used to try things, when I was-,” _engaged to Joffrey_ “-younger, but no.”

“Aye, I see,” Clegane said. He looked Sansa in the eye as he spoke to her, her green eyes vivid in the harsh lantern light. “If he tries it again, I’ll kill him.”

Sansa’s grip on his wrist faltered completely, and she let her hand fall, brushing his fingers with hers as she did so. “Okay,” she said.

The two lit the lamp easily, the task only requiring one person, but Sansa found she quite enjoyed the company. Clegane walked up close to the huge glass panes, squinting out at the sea. The huge rays of light from the lamp made it impossible to see anything but his own reflection in the window. 

Sansa stood behind him under the guise of looking out the window as well, as she truthfully looked Clegane over. She did not want him to go to America, or anywhere else. She didn’t want him to live anywhere without her. The thought was disgruntling to Sansa, the complexities of their association not lost on her.

Clegane’s eyes met her own in the reflection of the glass. “May I call you Sandor?” she asked, surprising herself. He turned; eyes slightly wide. 

“I suppose, yes.” He answered, staring at her intently. 

“Thank you,” she said reflexively. _Thank you?_ “I mean- okay. Sandor.”

He nodded at her, smiling crookedly, no doubt at her struggle with words.

She smiled, running her hand over her braided hair lying against her back. 

As they made their way back down to the living quarters, Sansa’s mind flitted between Petyr and his intentions, and _Sandor._ It was a pretty name, she thought, though she would never say that to him. She thought it sounded rather like her own name. 

She lay in bed that night, listening to the ocean beat against the rocky shore, and thinking of a future where she wasn’t alone.

Sandor’s job at the shipbuilders took time to adjust to for Sansa. She had grown accustomed to company in the house, and now there was a stretch of time where she was alone. It was back to the old days, where it was just her and Lady. The fact that Sandor always came back made it easier, though.

Sunday morning Sansa stood at the stove, frying eggs for breakfast while Sandor sat at the table, reading the paper as he drank a cup of tea. “We’re still getting fucked out there,” he said.

Sansa glanced up. “What’s happened now?”

“The usual. Fire bombings, ships destroyed. Nothing new.”

Sansa frowned down at the pan, her lips pressed into a thin line. She agitated one of the eggs too much, popping the yolk. Yellow oozed along the pan, mingling with the oil. She sighed. “The war hasn’t touched us here yet. I hope it doesn’t touch my brothers, either.”

Sandor hummed in acknowledgement. Sansa handed him a plate of toast and eggs, and sat across from him, stabbing her egg immediately. She looked up to see Sandor watching her, his fork frozen just above his plate.

“What?” she said.

“I’m sure your brothers will be fine little bird. No sense in worrying about it all the way from here.”

“Mm.”

They ate in silence, though Sansa continued to feel his eyes on her. 


	6. Clothes in the Breeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy this chapter! As always, your comments and kudos are so appreciated. Thank you all, and happy reading!

Saturday morning, Sansa offered to wash his clothes, handing him a pair of Jon’s old pyjamas to wear while she did the wash. 

She came down the stairs, holding a bundle of her own clothes to be washed, to find him in only the pyjama pants. His chest was bare, and she swallowed, forcing her eyes to his. _Do not stare._ He seemed unaware of Sansa’s wandering eyes, to her relief.

“Your brother was a skinny bastard, eh?” he said. “Can’t fit my arms in the sleeves,” he said, holding up the striped shirt. The pants looked comical on him, tight through the thighs and reaching just above his ankles. 

Sansa smiled. “Skinny next to you, I suppose. Most thought Jon was a big man actually.”

“Big man with skinny arms,” Sandor said. Sansa laughed, gathering his clothes up in her arms and tossing them in her metal tub. 

Sansa always did the washing outside. Her copper tub for boiling and her clothes mangle were both set up just outside of her home. The sound of the ocean kept Sansa company as she washed the clothes, giving her an imagined audience as she sang. She hadn’t sung in a long time, not since Sandor laid on her sofa, unconscious and fevered.

She sung quietly as she worked, which always seemed to make things go along more quickly. It was a trick she had learned when she first came to be the keeper of the lighthouse.

The laundry still took hours, and her arms ached from agitating the clothes in the copper tub. A muddy puddle developed underneath the copper tub from spilt water, sucking her boots in to the earth.

When Sansa had wrung them all out through the clothes mangle, she threw the wet clothes back into her bin, the fabric _thwapping_ against the walls of the container.

Sansa stood fully upright, stretching her back out and reaching her hands toward the sky. Laundry day was not particularly enjoyable, and always left her sore and aching. 

Hanging the laundry was not as bad. She always found it satisfying as the lump of wet clothes in the tub dwindled until it was empty, and the laundry was all pinned up. Sansa admired the look of the clothesline, fuller than usual with the addition of Sandor’s clothes. Her clothes and his, intermixed with each other, moving with the breeze. _It could always be like this,_ she thought. 

The afternoon sun was bright by the time she wiped her hands dry on her dress. Sansa pushed the front door open, leaning her side into it as she did so, the door sticky with age. She stepped out of her rubber boots; the bottoms now coated with mud. She placed them neatly by the door, next to Sandor’s lace up boots and stepped into her house slippers.

Sandor was kneeling in front of the wood stove, adding bits of wood to the fire. He glanced up at her when she entered, still bare chested. Sansa focused on his eyes as he spoke to her. 

“You’re nearly out of firewood. I can chop some tomorrow, if you like,” Sandor said. Sansa shoved her weight against the front door, and it closed with a loud thud. “I could also see about that door.”

Sansa stared at him, mouth slightly open. “I- uh. Yes, that would be nice. If you don’t mind, of course.”

He gave her a half smile, an expression she was growing accustomed to, and found she rather liked seeing. “Wouldn’t have offered if I minded.”

Sansa smiled back, nodded shortly. “Okay.” He was unusual, she thought. He was gruff, but more helpful than any man she had met before. _Besides Father._

The laundry would take a long time to dry, Sansa knew, so Sandor would be out of proper clothing until then. Sansa couldn’t say she much minded.

After dusk fell and she tended to the lamphouse, Sansa made them both a cup of tea and joined Sandor near the wood stove. They sat quietly together, nursing their teacups and basking in the heat of the stove. Sansa glanced up at Sandor, as he sat on the ground and absently stroked Lady’s fur, his eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. This was the first time she let herself properly see him bare chested, no undershirt or anything of the like. His chest was broad, and had dark hair across it, moving down his belly and trailing into his pyjama trousers. Sansa’s face warmed at the observation. 

“What’s that?” she asked suddenly.

Sandor looked up at her, his eyebrows raised slightly. “What’s what?”

“That, right there, on your chest,” she said, leaning forward from her chair. She joined him on the ground, her curiosity driving her forward. The two sat together closely as Sansa inspected him.

“It’s a tattoo,” Sandor said. It was of a small, black dagger, placed over his heart. Around the blade was a ribbon of text, reading _‘All men are killers.’_

“How did I not see…” Sansa murmured to herself.

“Too distracted by the face, I expect,” he said dryly. 

Sansa’s head snapped up from his tattoo, glaring hard at him. “That is not why,” she said firmly. “Where did you get it?” she asked. 

“Army. Most men have something or another.”

“’ _All men are killers_?’ You don’t believe that’s true, do you?” Sansa asked, tilting her head as she watched him.

“Aye,” Sandor said. “Has the war taught you nothing little bird? Your father was a killer. Your brothers, across the sea, they’re killers.” Sandor leaned forward toward Sansa, his grey eyes holding her attention. “I’m a killer.”

“War is different,” Sansa whispered. She dropped her gaze back to the dagger, reaching out a hand, unbidden, to his chest. She froze a centimeter above his skin. Sansa could almost feel his body heat from her hand’s proximity alone. _What are you doing?_

“Can I touch it?” Sansa asked, glancing up at Sandor. His gaze was unfamiliar, typically one of amusement, or irritation, or focus. This was nothing of the sort. His cool eyes looked warm; his pupils dilated as he stared at her. He did not seem surprised, however, or offended by the question. Sansa began to wonder if he had heard the question. “Sandor?”

“Go on then,” Sandor said. His voice was deeper than usual when he spoke. He cleared his throat. 

Sansa lowered her eyes from his back to the dagger tattoo. She let her pointer finger, still marred along one length from her kitchen incident, rest on the top of the dagger’s hilt. Sandor’s skin was warm, reminding her of the time before where she touched his skin. But that was a different circumstance entirely. This time, she was not nursing him back from a fever. She was not sure what this instance would be considered. 

She let her finger move slowly, enjoying the feeling of his skin under her finger. The lines of the tattoo were slightly raised, where the tattoo needle had scarred the skin. Sansa traced the knife in sections; first the hilt, then the blade, and then finally, over the ribbon of text. _All men are killers._ It was unlike anything Sansa had seen before.

Sandor did not speak while she performed this inspection, though Sansa could feel his eyes on her. It should have chastened her, made her stand and apologize profusely, but it did not. 

She lay her hand flat over the tattoo, her long fingers covering it easily. Sansa was silent still as she did this, and froze, feeling the heartbeat of Sandor. His heart was beating quickly, firm and fast against her palm. 

Sansa looked up slowly. Sandor’s eyes were on her still, probably had never left her, and his pupils were still dilated as he took her in. His cheeks were pink, though that could have been from the proximity to the wood stove, and his mouth slightly open. His heartbeat increased under her hand as she looked Sandor in the face. Sansa’s pulse quickened to match under his intense stare.

“Your heart is beating rather fast,” Sansa whispered.

“Aye, it is little bird,” he said, and leaned in and kissed her.

Sandor’s lips were warm. The scarred side of his mouth was rough, but Sansa found she rather liked it. He loosely held on to her upper arm, allowing her to pull away if she chose, but Sansa knew she wouldn’t. He pulled away first.

He still held her arm, and Sansa still rested her hand on his chest. She smiled at him, and Sandor returned it in the half smile he sometimes gave her. Sansa leaned forward this time, and kissed him again, this time properly.

Sandor kissed her back fully, one hand snaking into her braided hair, the other wrapping around her back. He gave her a firm pull towards him, their bodies tangling as they embraced. Sansa ran her hands over his shoulders and arms and back, feeling his scarred skin as she did so. 

He was warm and scarred and huge, and unlike anything she had experienced before.

His hand pressed against the small of her back, the heat of his hand pressing through her thin dressing gown. Sandor bunched the fabric of her dressing gown in one fist, holding her hair tight in the other. 

Sansa shifted herself onto Sandor’s lap, legs on either side of him, tugging him closer to her. She wanted their bodies pressed together, she wanted to feel as much of him as she possibly could. Sandor groaned at her movement, sliding his hands down her back until they gripped the backs of her thighs. Sansa could feel the imprints his fingers were making on her legs, his hot touch branding her. 

She wished he would hold her tighter and leave bruises. She wanted to see them the next morning, make sure she was not imagining this moment. 

Sandor held her tightly against him, his strong hands moving up her legs again, tightening around her waist. He pulled away from her mouth and kissed along her cheek, then her jaw, and then kissing down her neck. Sansa’s breath caught, her gasp turning into a breathy sigh. She clenched her hands in his hair, tugging softly as he worked his way back up her throat, back to her waiting mouth. 

It grew warm in the tiny living room, the wood stove coupled with the pair’s exertion heated the room quickly. Sansa leaned back from Sandor and pulled at the ribbon tying her dressing gown closed. She pulled it off and tossed it to the side, revealing a simple white nightgown.

Sandor’s eyes widened as he looked over her body, his pupils huge with desire, and his cheeks flushed pink. “What are you doing little bird?” he rasped. His voice was husky and deep, Sansa noticed, more than usual. _I did this to him,_ she thought. The realization fueled the desire growing in Sansa’s belly.

“It’s warm,” she whispered back. 

“Aye, it is.” Clegane’s hands slid down her body excruciatingly slow, his touch more pronounced with one less layer between them. His hands slowed as they came to the bottom of Sansa’s nightgown, which was bunched up around her knees as she sat atop him. 

Sansa’s breathing quickened as his hands moved up her bare thighs, watching Sandor as he watched her. She froze as his hands reached the bottom of her knickers, his fingers brushing the edge of the fabric, barely scraping along her skin. 

She grabbed his wrist. “Wait, Sandor. Perhaps this is too much for tonight.”

He stilled, and then slowly withdrew his hands, gently running his fingertips over the tops of her thighs as he did so. “Aye little bird. Perhaps you're right.” He rested his hands on the floor on either side of himself, leaning back as he looked Sansa over.

The two stayed up a little while longer, kissing lazily as they lay on the rug in front of the wood stove. With their relaxed position, Sansa could hear the ocean again, instead of her own heartbeat pulsing in her ears. 

Sandor held her closely against his bare chest, watching her as she traced his tattoo again. She hummed quietly. 

“Give me a song, little bird,” Clegane said.

“You ought to ask politely,” Sansa said, glancing up into his grey eyes.

A corner of his mouth pulled up into a half-grin. “Please, little bird. Give me a song.”

“Alright,” she said. She sang a song her mother had taught her, a song about brave soldiers off to war, and beautiful ladies waiting for their return. It was a melancholy song, with a slow tune, and when Sansa looked up into Sandor’s face, his lids were half closed, his gaze somewhere far off.

“It’s a pretty song,” Sandor said when she finished. “If only war was half as nice.”

Sansa said nothing, just kissed his shoulder.


	7. An Unwelcome Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the love on last chapter!! I appreciate you all so SO much, and I hope you like this chapter. Happy reading!

Sansa woke slowly to a quiet knocking, blinking hard as she realized where she was. She was still sprawled out on the rug before the wood stove, Sandor still asleep next to her. Her body was nestled into his side, and she sat up carefully so as to not wake Sandor. 

Sansa looked up at the clock, and then at the door, listening carefully. It was early still for visitors, only nine. And she was not expecting anyone. Was she imagining a knocking on the door?

It happened again. There was a tapping on the front door, quiet but insistent. She stood and grabbed up her dressing gown from the floor, putting it on. Lady had stood up as well from where she was lazing on the ground and growled softly at the door.

Sansa’s heartbeat quickened at Lady’s reaction, and she glanced uneasily at Sandor, still asleep on the ground. _You forget he is still a deserter._

Sansa kneeled next to Sandor. “ _Sandor,_ ” she hissed. He did not stir. She pushed him in the arm, gentleness forgotten in her mounting anxiety. “Sandor, get up,” she said. He jolted awake at her shove, sitting up.

“What?” he asked groggily. 

“ _Someone is at the door._ You need to hide.”

Sandor glanced up at the front door and listened as the person on the other side of the door knocked again, this time louder.

“Right. Where do you want me?” he asked lowly. 

Sansa stood and straightened her dressing gown, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in it to no avail. “Go upstairs,” she said. “Stay there until I tell you to come down,” she ordered.

Sandor stood and walked toward the staircase. His footsteps were impressively quiet for a man of his size. He made it two steps up the stairs before Sansa gasped.

“ _Wait!”_ she gasped. She ran on tiptoes across the kitchen and grabbed Sandor’s military uniform off the backs of the kitchen chairs, where they had hung since his arrival. She shoved the bundle of clothes into Sandor’s waiting arms, and he hurried up the rest of the stairs.

Sansa took a deep breath and stood before the front door, trying to compose herself. She combed a hand through her long hair, now unbraided from sleep and the previous night’s activity. 

_You can do this. You can lie. Now do it._

Sansa opened the stiff door with a wrenching pull, to reveal Petyr Baelish standing before her. Her heart pounded erratically. He stood before her, smiling neutrally, though his relaxed demeanor did not put Sansa at ease.

“Petyr!” she said loudly, too loudly. “Hello! I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I see that. I apologize for waking you,” he said, glancing over her state of dress. 

“Oh, it’s no worry. What brings you here?” she asked pleasantly. She could feel her pulse in her throat.

“I thought I might stop by,” Petyr said, holding up a basket. “We haven’t chatted properly in so long, and I know it must be so lonely here.” He glanced behind her shoulder, into the house. “Can’t imagine it’s healthy, love.” 

Baelish glanced to his side, out at the small patch of land before the rocky cliff sloped down to the sea. 

Sansa felt her heart sink, realizing exactly what Petyr was about to see. She watched as his brow furrowed, his façade cracking as he stared at the laundry line. “Whose clothes are those?” Petyr asked. There was no charm in his voice.

“Hm?” Sansa asked. She looked past the door frame to where Petyr’s eyes lingered. “Oh, just some of my father’s old things.”

Petyr looked at her and smiled. “I see. You wash your father’s old things?”

“Yes. I like keeping them. Around the house,” Sansa said. She laughed, forcedly casual. “Strange, I know.”

“Hmm, strange indeed, darling,” he said. He lifted the basket up, catching her eye. A pointed reminder that he intended to stay a while.

Sansa smiled, feeling stiff in her every motion. “Please, come in,” she said, moving to stand aside the door. “Let me just go get dressed, and I’ll be right down.” She thought of Sandor, huddled up in her room, waiting out Petyr’s visit. 

Petyr ran a hand down her arm as he passed through the door. “It’s no matter love. I’ve known you since you were so young, there’s no need for propriety when it’s just us.”

Her belly knotted at his words. “Right,” she said, smiling stiffly. “Please, sit.” She gestured toward the kitchen table, inviting him to sit. She began opening cabinets, pulling out two teacups.

“Care for tea?” she asked, already setting the kettle on to boil.

“Yes please, love, thank you.” Petyr was pulling wrapped packages out of the basket. “I brought you lemon cakes,” he said, smiling up at her.

“Oh, how thoughtful of you,” Sansa said. _I hate you,_ she thought. She stood in the safe corner of the kitchen under the guise of intently watching the kettle. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling bare and exposed, and then uncrossed her arms. She could not look nervous.

Petyr glanced up at her from the basket of pastries and smiled widely at her. “Are you feeling alright love? You look a bit pale.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Petyr walked toward her, and gently grabbed her upper arms. His grip was not tight, but it did not give the impression that she could refuse his touch. His long fingers were cold, the metal of his signet ring icy through her sleeves. “If something is wrong, Sansa, I hope you would tell me. I can help you,” he said, his eyes boring into her own. They flicked down her body before looking back in her eyes.

Sansa could not flinch, instead she turned her features to stone as she smiled at him. “Of course I know that. Nothing is wrong Petyr,” she said, her pulse picking up again. If the two were silent, maybe Petyr would hear it. “Let’s sit. I haven’t had lemon cakes since the war began.”

Petyr dropped his hands from her arms, seemingly satisfied with Sansa’s answer. “Of course, love.” He pulled a chair out for her at the kitchen table and she sat in it, her back straight. Petyr lingered for a moment behind her, resting his hands on the back of the chair, and then on her shoulders.

Sansa tensed reflexively as one of his hands slid up her shoulder, and then brushed his fingers slowly along her neck as he pushed her hair to the one side. Sansa stared straight ahead at nothing in particular, as Petyr leaned his mouth down to her exposed ear. “I hope you're telling me the truth,” he whispered smoothly, his breath hot on her ear.

His words were like icy water down her back. Sansa turned her head slightly, moving her ear slightly away from his lips. She glanced back at him and smiled pleasantly. “I am,” she said.

Petyr removed his hands from her shoulders, dragging his manicured nails along her as he pulled away. He sat across from her, facing the front door. “How have you been coping love? All alone out here?”

“I find I enjoy the solitude. And I have Lady, to keep me company,” Sansa said. 

“Surely you miss London.”

Sansa wondered if this was a trap by Petyr, this curiosity over her wellbeing. “I do miss home sometimes. But I enjoy living by the ocean.”

The kettle shrieked and Sansa stood, leaving the table for the stove. She pulled the kettle from the heat and poured one cup and reached for the next. Petyr cleared his throat.

Sansa turned to look at him. “Yes?” she asked, holding one empty teacup still.

“Whose boots are those?” Petyr asked, eyes focused on the row of shoes by the front door. Where she had lined up her boots next to Sandor’s.

Panic bubbled up in Sansa, threatening to overtake her immediately. She felt the dread in her chest, down to her toes and thick in her mouth. “My father’s,” she said, but it sounded hollow even to her. 

Petyr stood, the wooden chair scraping against the floor. He walked to the shoes, his steps unhurried. Sansa stood frozen, still holding one teacup in her hand. She watched as Petyr leaned down, and picked up one of Sandor’s boots, holding the enormous thing in one hand.

Petyr spoke smoothly, his demeanor completely cool. “These look like the boots you bought in town, hm?” he said, a look of faint curiosity brushed across his face.

Sansa said nothing, her teeth clenched as she waited for Petyr to continue.

“I met someone, not so long ago. A shipbuilder, new to town. Horrid scar.” Petyr looked down at the boot, turning it over in his hand as he inspected it. “He was the largest man I’ve ever seen.” He looked up at Sansa, his neutral expression setting her further on edge. He dropped the boot to the floor.

“I think he’s a deserter as well,” said Petyr, not dropping his eyes from Sansa’s. “Where is he?”

Sansa shook her head. _Compose yourself._ “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sansa said coolly. 

“The deserter you’re fucking. Where is he?”

Sansa felt her residual dread slowly melt into anger at Petyr’s words. “Who do you think you’re speaking to?” she asked, venom dripping from her words.

Petyr turned away from her without another word, and started out the front door, Sansa following close behind. “What do you think you're doing?” Sansa yelled after him as he walked toward the foot path leading to town.

He spun around, looking at her with disgust. “Following the law, love.”

“Oh, you?” she spit back at him. “Since when? Are your brothels not doing well then?”

Petyr looked her over, one side of his mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. “Clever girl.” He looked up behind Sansa, back toward the lighthouse, and chuckled, his laugh void of amusement.

Sansa followed his gaze behind her, and felt the panic begin again. Sandor was standing in the doorway, not five meters away, still wearing only the ridiculous pyjama pants that didn’t touch his ankles. _Sandor is going to be executed._ She felt tears build in the back of her throat with the realization. Desperation built in her, enough for her to put her dignity aside and beg.

“Petyr-,” she began, but he didn’t laugh again. He turned away and began walking toward the footpath, his gait steady and unbothered. “Please, Petyr, don’t say anything-.”

He turned to look at her, giving her a once over glance of disgust. “What would your mother think of you? Whoring yourself to a traitor?”

Sansa felt her blood throbbing in her ears as she watched him turn away from her. She grabbed the back of his collar and yanked, hard in anger. His foot caught on a small rock embedded in the uneven terrain and Sansa released him in surprise. He made no sound, no cry of shock, and smacked the ground hard, the side of his head striking a rock.

Sansa stood there, unable to move as she watched blood seep into the ground, puddling around Petyr’s skull like a halo. He lay there on his side, eyes wide in shock, his body positioned uncomfortably where he landed. He gasped, his breath coming in short puffs. Sansa stepped away from Petyr’s immobile body, gasping for breath as she moved, unable to stop looking at him. Petyr tried to push himself from the ground without success, and his body hit the ground again with a low _thump._ He didn’t try to move again.

Heavy footsteps came from behind her and Sandor’s large hand came down on her shoulder. He stepped in front of her, his grey eyes searching her face and body for injury. “Are you hurt?” he asked. 

“Is he dead?” she asked lowly, still staring as blood seeped outwards from Petyr. Sandor looked to his still body. He nudged him with a toe, rolling him on to his back.

“Aye little bird, he’s dead.”

Breathing became difficult. The air came into her lungs with great effort, and Sansa couldn’t get enough oxygen. Her breathing was loud, her inhales shaky and ragged, how people breathed when they had nearly drowned.

Sandor grabbed her shoulders and lowered his face in front of her own. “It’s alright little bird, come on now, breath in,” he said, his low voice rough and comforting.

She dragged air into her lungs, filling her belly with air. “What will we do? I didn’t mean to- he was going to tell about you,” she said, breathing hard still.

“Shh, now little bird, I know you didn’t mean to,” Sandor said, rubbing his hands up and down her arms like he meant to warm her. 

She felt tears start to prick at her eyes, and she pressed her fingers to her lids to push the tears away. “I don’t know what to do,” she said quietly. 

Sandor looked out at the sea, and then the land around the lighthouse, quiet as he contemplated. He pulled her away to look at him, dropping her arms. “Go on and get me and old blanket,” he told her. “Bring it back out here. I’ll be waiting right here.”

She rubbed her arms at the absence of warmth and nodded. “Okay.”

“A rope too,” he called after her.

Sansa came back with a coil of rope and a moth-eaten blanket, dark brown and musty with age. She offered the folded blanket to Sandor, who snapped it open. “Why don’t you go inside while I do this little bird,” Sandor suggested. He laid the blanket out on the ground, and Sansa realized what he intended to do.

“No,” she said, voice clear and firm. “I’m fine. Let me help.”

He stared into her face for a moment, his grey eyes focused and knowing, before he nodded. “Alright little bird. Help me roll the bastard up.”


	8. Deep in the Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your feedback last update. Your lovely comments and kudos make me so dang happy. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Sansa kept close behind Sandor as the pair made their way down the slope of rocks towards the beach. Despite the abundance of loose rocks, Sandor’s steps were blessedly sure footed. He carried Petyr’s body over his shoulder, wrapped in the brown blanket, a fact not lost on Sansa. If she thought about it too long, the fact that they were carrying a dead body, she grew sick to her stomach. 

Sansa had offered to help carry Baelish, but her words quieted when Sandor threw him over his shoulder in one easy motion. He was incredibly strong, still shirtless and in only pyjama pants. Sansa wondered how they would look to a pair of outside eyes. 

“Should I go get the rowboat?” Sansa asked when they made it to the beach. “I don’t know how else he’d get… out. Far enough.” _You're a murderer._ The thought would render her immobile if she let it. 

She cleared her throat. “The rowboat isn’t far. I tied it up on the beach a while ago. For… convenience.” Sansa huffed a morbid chuckle at the idea. _Convenient indeed._

Sandor put Petyr down on the rocky ground, not exactly dropping him, but not particularly gentle either. “That’d be good. We’ll have to tie some rocks to him also. Keep him sunk down.”

Sansa tossed the coil of rope she was holding down beside the body. The image of Petyr’s body, swollen and discolored from water entered Sansa’s mind. The invasive picture of his skin, mottled and in some places eaten by fish, lingered in her brain. She took another steadying breath. “Right. Okay. I’ll just be a moment.”

The boat was up a little way, nestled far up the shore between two large boulders, keeping it snug. Sansa never had worry of it drifting out to sea, or it being stolen. Her beach was private, shielded from public eye. _Lucky for you,_ she thought humourlessly.

She dragged it along the pebbled beach, likely ruining the bottom of the boat, but she couldn’t be bothered about it. Sandor came over to help her, picking up one side of the boat, and her the other. They worked in silence, carrying it over toward where Baelish lied, wrapped in the blanket. A red stain marred one end of the fabric. They set the boat down, and Sansa looked at the body.

If she told herself it wasn’t a person, it made the situation less terrible. She watched silently as Sandor collected some of the larger rocks and placed them carefully in the folds of the blanket. She caught a glimpse of Petyr’s shoe, and glanced up into the sky, unable to watch.

The sky was overcast, grey clouds light in color but thick in presence as they churned in the air. A couple of birds flew towards the sea, away from town. She looked back at Sandor, now tying the body securely with the rope, keeping the rocks where he wanted them. She looked back up at the sky.

“Are you sure this will work?” she asked the clouds.

“Aye little bird. Should work just fine.” Sandor said. Sansa looked at him as he finished. “Right then, let’s get him in the boat and toss him out,” he said.

She looked at the body, wrapped in the brown blanket and now bound in rope. Sansa felt a wave of nausea strike her, felt her mouth water in repulsive warning. She made it three steps away from the body before she was hunched over, vomiting. 

She felt a strong hand on her back, rubbing up and down her spine as she heaved until her throat hurt and nothing came out. “Get it out, you're alright,” Sandor said calmly. Her mouth tasted of acid, and she spit, her eyes watering from retching so violently. She straightened.

“Alright? This is not alright!” she exclaimed, turning to Sandor. He watched her with calm grey eyes. “I’ve _killed_ someone. This isn’t alright!” Tears leaked down her face, and she wiped her hands over her face. _“He’s dead.”_

“You didn’t mean to little bird. S’not half bad as meaning to kill him. Now, you can go on up home, or help me get him in the boat,” Sandor said calmly. He looked unperplexed at her outburst.

Sansa scowled at his unmoved face. “Are you not bothered at all then? Just another day?”

He remained neutral looking. “What’s done is done. Can’t bring the fucker back to life. Best we get this done with,” he said.

She glared at the rocks underneath her feet. Sansa couldn’t let Sandor do this alone. It was her that killed Petyr. She wiped her face bitterly once more and nodded. “Alright.”

The two lifted the body into the boat, heavier now with the rocks nestled in the blanket. Sansa sat in the boat by the body’s feet, stiff and unwilling to touch any part of the blanket. Sandor gave them a hard push out to sea and climbed in after. They rowed out until Sansa’s lighthouse was small, and she nodded.

“If we drop him here, I doubt he’ll resurface,” Sansa said. Sandor nodded.

“Alright little bird.” He grabbed the torso, and Sansa grabbed the feet. With a great heave, they tossed the body into the sea, and Petyr went under with a quiet splash. He sank immediately. 

“Wait,” Sansa said when Sandor picked up an oar. “Let’s see if he bobs back up.” They sat there for what felt like a silent hour but was likely not even five minutes. Sansa listened as the sea licked up at the boat, and waves gently rocked them up and down. 

The water was deep, and not very clear. Sansa peered out over the side but could not see where Petyr had landed. “Okay. Let’s go then.”

They rowed back to shore in silence for a while, before Sandor broke the silence.

“It’s not your fault little bird. You didn’t mean to. Though it doesn’t seem like a great loss. This was the fucker that tried shit on you, aye?” he asked as the shore came to sight.

“Yes. I still didn’t mean to kill him.”

“No, maybe not. Doesn’t mean you have to fret over it all your life.”

“No. Maybe not,” Sansa said. They pulled the rowboat back up the shore and back to its home between two boulders. Sansa’s muscles felt shaky and exhausted as they climbed back up the slope of boulders to the lighthouse. 

Her home came into her line of vision, and she exhaled in relief. Motion to the side caught her eye. The laundry.

It was still hanging and moving slightly with the air. _If you had collected the laundry, this wouldn’t have happened,_ she thought. But that wasn’t true. Petyr was smarter than that. _Doesn’t mean you have to fret over it all your life._

She walked to the clothes and began snatching them off the line, her violent pulls causing the line to bounce up with each tug. Sansa grabbed handfuls of clothing until she had her arms full. Sandor walked next to her with silent footsteps and collected the rest of the clothes off the line.

*

They sat in Sansa’s living room, unspeaking as they processed the morning’s events. Terrible things were supposed to happen at night, not so early in the day. Sansa felt disoriented and tired, and didn’t know what to say, if she should say anything, to Sandor.

“I’ll still have to work tomorrow,” he said, breaking Sansa’s trance. “It’ll look strange if I don’t show up.”

She nodded, staring at her hands. Lady sat at her feet, curled tightly and asleep. “Of course.”

“I’ll come back after work,” he said. 

Sansa looked up at him, his grey eyes open and honest. She doubted he was ever dishonest. “My murderous tendencies haven’t frightened you off?” she asked blandly.

“Not if my traitorous tendencies haven’t done the same for you,” he said, grinning his half-smile.

Sansa laughed despite the circumstances. “No, I think I can cope.” She leaned down to stroke Lady’s fur. “Do you think we’ll be found out?”

“Don’t think so. Sounds like he wasn’t a good man to begin with.”

“I know. But he’s got connections. He owns a brothel, they might wonder where he’s gone to,” Sansa said. She looked up at the kitchen table. The basket of baked goods and treats Petyr had brought still sat, pristine, on the kitchen table. “I forgot to grab the damn basket.”

“It’ll be alright. I’ll listen ‘round tomorrow, see if there’s any talk of the man,” Sandor said.

“We should’ve just rung the doctor. Told him it was an accident.”

“He might’ve figured us out too little bird. Can’t kill the whole town, keep ‘em silent.”

Sansa frowned at him and leaned back in her chair. “This is a bloody mess.”

“Aye, it is.”


	9. Burnt Wicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh!! Thank you all for waiting so patiently for this chapter- I have midterms this week... fun! Anyways, thank you guys for all of your support with this story, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

While Sandor was in town at work, Sansa’s nerves kept her busy. Her restlessness made it impossible to sit, and Lady kept by her side all day, a comforting presence. 

Her mind, when left to wander, would imagine not Sandor opening the front door, but men in crisp uniforms, informing her she was under arrest for murder. Sandor would already be dead for deserting, and she would follow shortly after.

She pounded her fist into the bread dough she was kneading, harder than necessary. “I am not a murderer,” she said out loud. She glanced at Lady, lying on her belly in the center of the kitchen. The dog looked up at her with soft eyes and cocked her head to the side. 

Sansa sighed, and turned back to her bread, kneading it forcefully as she began to sing quietly.

The days were growing shorter as October turned into November, and it was dusk by the time Sandor came back. The lamp had been lit, and dinner cooked, and Sansa paced the small home as she waited for him. She had cleaned the house spotless and disposed of Petyr’s wicker basket.

She had knelt before the fire, breaking the basket into pieces and feeding it to the fire. Sansa had watched entranced as the fire ate away at the evidence, until the entire basket was gone. In some ways she was uneasy about how she was coping with Petyr’s death. Perhaps she should be inconsolable, having killed a man. Wouldn’t most women have turned themselves in by now?

But if she were to do that, Sandor would be complicit as well. And Petyr was not a good man, she reminded herself.

Sansa now knelt before the wood stove next to Lady, running a hand over the dog. Lady looked up, briefly startled from her nap, before nuzzling her nose back between her paws. Sansa smiled. Dogs would love you no matter what, she knew. 

The front door opened heavily, the wrenching noise startling Sansa up from the floor. She stood without grace, to see Sandor taking up the entire door frame. Sansa sighed in relief, her breath coming out shakily. For no proper reason, she wondered if she might cry.

Sansa walked up to Sandor and hugged him tightly around the middle, breathing in his scent. 

Sandor grunted in surprise. “Alright little bird?” he asked.

He smelled of sweat, and sea water, and wood shavings.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she said. She pulled away and smiled at him, before turning to plate their dinner. 

Sandor sat heavily in one of the wooden chairs, grunting as he did so. Sansa smiled, reminded of her father. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and his shirt’s collar unbuttoned. Sandor rested with his elbows on the table, and she could feel his eyes on her. It made her feel warm. Wanted.

She dished them both bowls of soup with bread and joined Sandor at the table. “Did you hear anything?” Her voice was too high. 

“Not a word,” he said as he took a bite of soup. He kept his eyes on her, and his elbows on the table. 

“Did you ask about him?” Sansa asked.

Sandor rolled his eyes, though it was only obvious in his good one. “I’m no idiot, girl. If we start asking about him then we link ourselves to him. I just listened.”

Sansa frowned, bristling. She tucked a piece of hair behind her hair. “I see,” her voice was clipped. “You’ll listen again tomorrow though?” 

“Yes, little bird. Now quit your chirping and eat. There’s no sense in worrying yet,” he said. Sandor took a large bite.

Sansa tore off a piece of bread more violently than necessary. “Forgive me for worrying. How ridiculous of me,” she said, her words dripping with annoyance.

Sandor stilled his movements, dropping the spoon down to the bowl. “Little bird,” he said. Sansa glared. “It will be fine. No one would hurt you, or I’d kill them.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about! I’m worried about _you_ as well! The traitor and the murderer, quite the lovely pair. We’d _both_ be executed if they find us out.”

Sandor reached over the table and took her hand in his. His hands were calloused already from his few days of work at the shipyard, though they were probably calloused long before. The rough skin gently scratched her own. “Little bird,” he said. “Look at me.”

She looked at him, his heavy dark features still and serious. He was like a sculpture she would have seen in a museum in London, long ago when she still did things like that. Sandor could be some Greek warrior or another, his half-scarred face a token of the warrior’s bravery. 

He squeezed her hand. “We will be alright. I promise you, if I hear word of Baelish, I’ll tell you. And if we must, we’ll leave the town together. Alright little bird?”

Sansa nodded solemnly, her hand warm and buzzing from the contact. “Alright then.”

They passed the evening quietly, too stressed and exhausted to act on their newfound appreciation of each other. Instead, they sat before the wood burning stove, Sansa working on her needlepoint, and Sandor reading a book he had found around the house. Lady lay on his lap, the two of them lounging on the sofa while Sansa sat in the armchair. It was peaceful, which was perhaps why Sansa felt on edge.

Her thoughts were jumbled and fear-driven, distracting her. She pricked herself with the needle three times before she set her needlepoint down. “Tell me something Sandor,” she said. He glanced up at her from his book. He lay stretched out, clad in only his undershirt and trousers, his boots long discarded by the front door. He looked comfortable, Sansa thought.

“Tell you what?” he asked, resting a hand on Lady’s neck. 

“Something. Anything. What did you do before the war?” she asked, leaning against the arm of her chair. 

He set the book down. “Fought in a different war.”

Sansa cocked her head to the side, looking at him quizzically. 

“I was a mercenary. Would fight for whoever had the best pay.” He gave Lady a scratch behind the ears, looking at the dog for a moment before glancing up at Sansa. “Told you little bird, all men are killers. Been doing it all my life.”

“War is different,” Sansa said, frowning. 

“Perhaps little bird. But it’s all I know.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said. 

Sandor shrugged, picking his book back up and absently stroking Lady’s fur.

Sansa frowned again at the silence. “Tell me something good. Your favorite memory.” 

“Most my good memories have been recent, and you’ve been present for them,” he said, still looking at his book. Sansa felt her cheeks redden and her skin grow warm with his words. She tried to hide the smile creeping onto her face. He was a peculiar man, one that Sansa would never have glanced at in her younger years, save to gawk at his scars. But she had done some growing up, quite a bit since the start of the war. 

She was wiser and understood how the world worked. Men had caused her to grow a thick skin, to learn how to portray an icy façade. Joffrey, with his cruelty and mind games, making her think it was her fault every time he hit her; Baelish, with his lingering eyes and omnipresence hanging over her; and her father. Her father whose death forced her to grow up the quickest, to wise up, to act as though she was made of stone.

And now here she was, with a man unlike any she had met before. A self-proclaimed killer, a deserter, a good, loyal man of brutal honesty. It was strange that he could be all at once, she thought. 


	10. A Wrinkled Dressing Gown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments last chapter! Happy reading! :)

Three days passed quietly, with no mention of Petyr’s disappearance. 

“It seems no one misses the fucker,” Sandor said one evening as they rested by the wood burning stove after lighting the lamp. 

“Still no word then?” Sansa asked. The pair sat side by side on the sofa, Lady curled on the floor in front of them. 

Sandor took her hand, turning it over in both of his. He raised her hand to his face and kissed her palm, the action painfully sweet. His lips were warm, half-rough on one side and chapped from the cooling weather. It was purely Sandor, a fact that was not lost on Sansa. She found she rather preferred traits unique to Sandor. “No word, little bird,” he murmured against the sensitive skin of her palm. His breath was warm on her, but goosebumps formed under her clothes, nonetheless. 

Sansa kept her eyes on him, watching as he moved his lips, kissing her wrist, and then up her forearm, tugging her closer as he did so. She sat entranced by him, and watched as he released her arm, moving instead to hold her neck. Sandor gently pulled her towards him, and she met him halfway, kissing him slowly. 

She had never been kissed like this before. Sandor’s hands skimmed over her body, his light touches burning through her clothes. He kissed her with warm lips and clear desire, his hand snaking into her hair and knotting tightly. 

Sansa thought he must rather like her hair. His grip tightened as he kissed her deeper, harder. Sansa matched him in his intensity, pulling him down over top of her as they stretched out on the sofa. 

Sandor hovered over her, pulling back to look at her. 

“What?” Sansa asked breathlessly. She ran her hand up his neck, giving his short hair a gentle tug. It was growing out of its soldier’s crop. Sandor shook his head, giving her a half-smile.

“You’re somethin’ else little bird,” he said. 

Sansa smiled crookedly. “I hope you mean that as a good thing.”

“Aye, I do. Still shocks me that a pretty thing like you had no man,” he said.

“I didn’t want one,” she replied simply.

“S’pose that makes me lucky then, aye?”

“Suppose so,” she said smiling softly.

Sansa shifted under Sandor, sliding off the sofa as gracefully as she could. She stood and straightened, retying her dressing gown and running her hands down the front of her it, smoothing out any wrinkles. Sandor now lay on the sofa, looking up at her with his grey eyes, assessing her. 

She offered him her hand. “Come to bed with me,” she said.

Sandor’s eyes widened in surprise, his mouth slowly twisting up in amusement, reminiscent of their early days together, when everything Sansa did seemed to amuse him. “Damn, little bird, didn’t expect those words to come out of your mouth,” he said, grinning.

Sansa’s face flushed. “No- I didn’t mean-,” she started. She glared at Sandor; his eyes crinkled in amusement. “I meant to sleep. Only sleep. I just assumed perhaps you would enjoy a proper bed,” she finished primly, regaining her composure.

Sandor chuckled and took Sansa’s hand. “Aye, I would little bird. I’ll come to bed with you,” he said, smirking again. He was enjoying her mistaken inuendo far too much, Sansa thought. 

She led him up the stairs, guiding him by the hand though it was unnecessary. Lady trotted along behind them, completely unaware to the erratic beating of her master’s heart. Sansa wondered if Sandor could feel her pulse through the hand he held. 

She gently pushed her bedroom door open. The room had belonged to her uncle once, and still felt rather masculine to Sansa. She had taken some liberties of course, replacing Uncle Edmure’s charmless quilt with one of her own mother’s hand. It was grey and blue, with white flowers embroidered along the edges. She had sobbed into the quilt for days after her mother was killed.

Grey curtains hung from the window, leftover from her uncle. They were thick to keep the lamp light at bay as she tried to sleep. It made her miss her days at Winterfell Manor, mornings spent waking up to sunshine streaming in through gauzy curtains. Those days were gone, only to be recalled in association with her childhood. She was a child no longer.

She untied her dressing gown slowly, hyperaware of Sandor’s heated eyes on her. Sansa basked in the feeling, letting the soft fabric slide down her bare shoulders and pool at her bare feet. She stood before him in only her thin nightgown, held shut at the shoulders with ribbon. 

Sansa pulled one side of the bedding down, innocently climbing into bed. She worked to restrain her smile and looked up to see Sandor standing in the doorway still, staring at her. Lady circled around Sandor’s legs before curling up on the rug in the center of the room. The dog looked up at him with big eyes as he contemplated the woman before him.

“Come on then. Unless you prefer the sofa?” she asked, smiling slightly. 

Sandor gave her a devilish half-smile in response. “You’re quite demanding, aren’t you,” he said, still smiling. Without breaking her gaze, he stripped himself of his trousers, standing before her in just his pants and undershirt. With one last half-grin, he pulled down the blankets on his side of the bed. _His side of the bed._

“Just thought you’d like to keep warm, is all,” she said. Her mouth felt a bit dry.

His weight sunk his side of the mattress, and Sansa hid a grin at that. He was so large, so _strong_ , and it awakened something in Sansa she had thought she lacked. 

_It was the men lacking, not you_.

Sandor shifted, and Sansa could feel his eyes on her. “Aye, I’d say this is an improvement,” he said.

She grinned, and turned on her side to face him. His face was illuminated every few moments by the little streams of light seeping in from between the curtains. “That the lamp?” he asked.

She nodded, though she was not sure if he could see her. “Yes. Does it bother you?” she asked.

“No. Can see you better this way,” he said. Sansa felt her face warm with what she believed to be a compliment. 

He spoke with a rough voice and little finesse, that was certain, but he didn’t fill her head with platitudes, reciting what she’d like to hear. 

She rolled onto her back, staring at the beams in the ceiling, the room filled with thin streams of light every so often. _What would Arya say right now?_ she wondered. Here she lay, a murderer, in bed with a traitor. How ridiculous.

Sansa reached under the sheets and took Sandor’s hand in her own. He ran his large thumb over the back of her hand, his calloused skin scraping her own. It was enough to give her shivers, despite the quilt covering her.

She shifted again, under the pretense of getting comfortable, but in actuality moved closer to Sandor, restraining a smile.

Sansa turned to look at him to find his eyes already on her. She wondered if his eyes had ever left her, or if he watched her the whole time. She found the idea thrilling. 

Sandor pulled on her hand, inviting her closer. She inched closer, her heart pounding in excitement. Sansa turned onto her side, mirroring his position, and his hand came up to move her hair away from her neck, his fingers skating along her skin as he did so. His fingers trailed along her neck achingly slow, burning a trail into her skin. Sandor ran his hand from her neck down to her shoulder, tracing lightly down to her elbow and back up again. Perhaps the rhythmic movement was meant to be comforting, intended to lull her to sleep, but Sansa felt electric. She could not sleep like this.

Sansa caught his large hand in her own as it came up her arm, and leaned into Sandor, pressing her chest against his. She felt bold, she felt brave, and more alive since the start of the war. Sansa released his hand and trailed her own into his hair, letting her short nails scratch along the back of his neck. She leaned back to look in his eyes, and she found his eyes dark with heat, looking at her in a way that made her feel bare, despite her nightgown.

She leaned in and kissed him, feeling his arm wrap around her waist almost instantly. Sansa tightened the arm around his neck, her other arm trapped under her body as she lay on her side. 

_This is improper,_ she thought. _What would Mother say?_ But her mother was not there, and Sansa was a grown woman. 

Sandor’s lips were warm and insistent, kissing her in a way she had not known before. He wanted her, she knew. His tongue traced the inside of her lips, causing her to shiver. She wondered how many women he had been with before her to kiss like this, and then shoved the thought from her mind. Perhaps he was simply talented. 

His hand against the small of her back felt to be burning a hole through her nightgown. Sansa drew her fingers along the back of his neck, pushing further into the kiss. Sandor groaned quietly into her mouth, and she smiled against his lips.

Sandor pulled away a hair’s breadth from her lips. “What’s got you smilin’ little bird?” he rasped against her mouth. His breath was warm on her lips.

“Nothing,” she replied, still smiling.


	11. The Red-haired Mistress

Sansa woke to Sandor’s arm stretched over her waist as he still slept. He was turned to face her, his lips parted in sleep, and the rest of his face relaxed. He looked peaceful, handsome. There was nothing in sleep for him to frown at. 

It was dawn, the light seeping in from behind the drawn curtains. Sansa sat up, gently moving Sandor’s arm from her body. His face pinched together in a momentary frown at the movement, before relaxing and turning onto his back. 

Sansa smiled at the sleeping man. The longer he stayed with her, the more handsome he grew in her eyes. It was a funny part of growing to care for someone, Sansa knew.

She wrapped her dressing gown around her and stepped into her slippers before easing the bedroom door open. Lady’s ears perked up at the door opening, and Sansa held it open for her as she stood from the rug.

Instead, Lady walked over to the bed and hopped up, curling up to sleep next to Sandor. Sansa felt her jaw drop at the betrayal. “Traitor,” she whispered to Lady before walking down to the kitchen for tea. 

It was a Tuesday morning, the air damp and thick with ocean spray by the time Sansa saw Sandor off. “Perhaps I’ll see you today,” she said, stalling him in the doorway of the house. “I’m coming into town to do the shopping later,” Sansa said. Sandor leaned against the doorframe, his huge stature filling the entrance. 

“Might be best we don’t seek each other out, little bird. Don’t need people putting two and two together.” He wound his hand into her braided hair, tightening his grasp at the nape of her neck.

Sansa smiled softly at the gesture. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I’ll see you tonight.” He kissed her then, tightening his grip in her hair once more before releasing her. Sansa watched as he vanished down the footpath toward town, leaving Sansa warm faced, her lips buzzing.

She then set about looking for tiny tasks around the lighthouse, wasting time before she could follow Sandor into town. It wouldn’t look good to arrive moments after him, Sansa was sure. She scrubbed the floors and cleaned the wood stove, and then swept the stone stairs leading up to the lamphouse, a task she had not performed since she arrived. It was clear that her Uncle Edmure had not performed the task very often either, if the amount of dirt billowing up around her ankles was any indication.

Just before noon, Sansa began her walk to town. The October month was dwindling, the days losing their warm touch, and she noticed it as she walked the footpath. Sansa pulled her sweater closer over her chest as she walked, the chill seeping into her skin where the sweater did not cover. Sandor would need better clothes for the coming season, she knew. 

The town was quiet as usual, but it made Sansa’s skin prickle with discomfort. She felt like there were eyes on her as she walked by the tables of fresh fish toward the produce stands. Sansa passed the men’s clothing shop as she walked. She slowed hesitantly. Would purchasing something for Sandor tip off someone?

Sansa contemplated the idea as she made her rounds of shopping, first stopping by the produce stands and then the bakery. As she walked down the town’s center street, her eyes continued to be drawn to the men’s clothing shop. Sansa took a deep breath and pushed open the door before she could continue to second guess herself. 

The door jingled as she let it swing shut behind her, announcing her loudly. The noise seemed almost offensive in the quiet shop. The same round man from her last visit stood behind the counter, dressed in a deep blue tailored suit. “Hello my dear,” he greeted her. “May I help you with anything?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Sansa said, smiling prettily. The store was still as overwhelming as the last time she was there, stuffed to the brim with as many men’s garments as could fit. 

Sansa walked along the wall, running her hand over a row of woolen socks, folded in half and displayed atop a low shelf. 

“We’ve just gotten those,” said the shopkeeper. “Handspun wool, hand dyed as well. They come in large sizes.” Sansa turned to face him where he stood behind his counter. He was smiling politely at her.

She smiled back, her heartbeat picking up as she did so. “Right. Thank you,” Sansa said.

She wandered over to the thick piles of sweaters, neatly folded and stacked along a wall below waist height. Sansa was forced to bend down to examine them. She removed a deep green sweater from the pile and held it up to herself to look at it, still kneeling before the stacked clothing. She smiled when she realized that the hem hung lower than her knees.

The door chimed again with the entrance of another customer. Sansa glanced up quickly at the new arrival. It was a pretty young woman, with red hair and a curvy figure. The woman looked familiar, Sansa thought, before turning back to the sweater in her hands. Sansa remained crouched before the stacks of sweaters; her fingers stilled on the fabric as she hastened to listen.

“My dear Ros. It has been too long,” the bald shopkeeper said. Sansa’s heart began to race. _What if she knew Petyr?_

“It most certainly has,” the woman said, her voice smooth and seductive. Sansa thought she must have practiced making her voice sound like that.

“What brings you here?” the shopkeeper asked. “A gift for a… suitor?”

“No. A question between friends?”

The shopkeeper must have nodded Sansa thought, for the redheaded woman spoke again. “Have you seen Petyr lately?” she asked.

Sansa clenched her fingers into the fabric, restraining herself from audibly gasping. She knelt frozen before the stacks of men’s sweaters, feeling like a child for hiding.

“I can’t say that I have,” the shopkeeper said. 

“Mmm,” the woman hummed. Sansa chanced a glance back at the counter. The redheaded woman tapped her fingers along the shopkeeper’s front counter, leaning forward as she contemplated the bald man’s words. “Thought you might say that,” the woman said.

“None of the girls have seen him lately,” the redheaded woman said. Sansa clapped a hand over mouth at the realization of who the woman was. She had seen her before, in town, the mistress of Petyr’s brothels. She had been introduced to her before, by Petyr, and not as a whorehouse’s mistress. No, he would never have been so improper so blatantly. 

“And you suspect foul play?” the shopkeeper asked. Sansa felt her blood pounding in her head, nausea threatening to ruin her discretion. 

“Wouldn’t be too shocked, would you? He was a right bloody prick half the time,” the woman said. 

“Yes, I heard he was a… less than generous employer.”

“You might say so,” the woman said. She sighed heavily. “Well, thank you Varys. I’ll be seeing you then.”

“Take care my dear,” he said. The door jingled with the mistress’s exit.

Sansa exhaled. _They know Petyr is missing._ She got to her feet uneasily, her calves numb from kneeling on them. Almost immediately, she felt the shopkeeper- Varys’s eyes on her. She turned to face him, feeling very much like a child again, caught eavesdropping.

Varys looked at her, his piercing eyes seeming unusual in his soft face. 

“Forgive me. I just- I only overheard a bit,” Sansa said. _Why are you apologizing? You’ve done nothing wrong._ Nonetheless, she felt her face flush with heat.

He smiled at her gently, as you might smile at a child. “I’m not concerned about that, my dear. Miss Stark, yes?”

She struggled to prevent her face from hardening. “Yes.”

“I heard our friend Mr. Baelish had a particular… affection, for you?” 

“I would not call it affection,” she said stiffly. Varys’s knowledge of her was turning her insides cold.

“Do you have any knowledge of where he might have run off to?” he asked, staring Sansa in the face as he asked. His gaze was searching, and Sansa felt exposed standing before him. _You shouldn’t have come in, you idiot._

“I’m afraid I don’t know. I’ll be sure to keep him in my prayers,” Sansa said. Her heart began to pound loudly, loud enough to feel it pulsing in her head.

“I hear he was not a particularly kind man.”

Sansa crinkled her brow, gazing at Varys for a moment, unable to speak. Varys met her eyes steadily, with a bright look in his own.

His demeanor was disarming, Sansa thought, and she felt unable to compose herself before him. She cleared her throat.

“Right. Just the sweater then, please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! Comments are always much appreciated. :)


	12. Wool Socks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter? So soon? Thank you spring break!! I hope you all enjoy. :)

When Sandor arrived home from the shipyard that evening, Sansa was pacing the length of the small home. He was kicking his boots off by the front door when she apprehended him. 

“I think someone knows,” she said, positioning herself against the kitchen counter.

“What?” Sandor asked.

“I was in town today- in this clothing shop- and the mistress of Petyr’s brothel and Varys were talking about him missing.” 

Sandor turned to face her, now only in socked feet. “Who’s Varys?”

She huffed. “The owner of the clothing shop.”

“Right.”

“Well what do we do? People are noticing that Petyr is missing!” Sansa turned from the counter and paced to the table. “I think Varys knows I had something to do with it.”

“And how would he know that?” Sandor asked.

“I don’t know. But he had this look about him- like he knew something. He told me Petyr was not a very kind man.” Sansa took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, drumming her fingers along the kitchen table as she faced out the window. “I think he knows.”

“Can’t prove it, can he?” Sandor asked calmly.

“I don’t know. I suppose not. Do you believe me?”

“Course I do, little bird. Got instincts for a reason,” he said. Lady stretched from her spot in front of the wood stove, and trotted over to see Sandor, her tail wagging as she did so. He bent down to scratch her.

Sansa turned her head to watch him as he kneeled before Lady, rubbing her neck. “Should we be worried?”

Sandor looked up at her from his spot on the kitchen floor. “Seems he didn’t like Baelish either from what you say. Might be we did him a service.”

“Maybe,” she said. She frowned and walked to the kitchen, grabbing their plates of chicken and potatoes and bringing them to the table. “Here, I’m sure you’re hungry from work. Let’s sit.”

Sandor said nothing as she set the table with silverware. Sansa turned, frowning to find him in the same spot. Now he looked at the ground instead of her.

“I could always leave town. You could blame his death on me, live peacefully here on out,” he said. He rested a large hand on Lady’s back.

Sansa felt she couldn’t breathe for a moment. “Is that what you want to do?” she asked quietly. “Leave town?”

“Might make your life easier, little bird.”

She turned back to the table, gripping one of the forks until the metal dug in uncomfortably. She placed it next to a plate too harshly, rattling the old table. “I don’t know if that’s true,” she said. She felt stiff, like she had to instruct her body to move casually. 

Sandor said nothing. 

She took a deep breath. _You are braver than this._ “I do not want you to leave,” she said. “I rather enjoy your company.” Sansa looked up at him from under her lashes, feeling less bold than she would like. “Though if you find this… _circumstance_ to be undesirable, I understand your wanting to leave.”

She exhaled, watching Sandor. 

“I’ll stay long as you’ll have me, little bird,” he said. His grey eyes were open, more vulnerable than she associated with him.

She smiled. “Good. Then stop trying to leave,” she said.

Sandor grunted in response, stabbing a piece of chicken on to his fork. “Alright then,” he said.

*

The next morning, Sansa woke much the same as the day before. The early grey light of dawn streamed into the room through the gaps between the curtains, waking her gently. Sandor’s arm was stretched over her, anchoring her against his chest. 

She moved slowly, lifting his arm off her body, placing it on the bed. His hand fisted in the bed sheet for a moment, before relaxing and his huge hand went limp again. Sansa smiled, standing up and pulling the covers up around him.

He was so beautiful when he was at ease, Sansa thought, and could not help but sit and watch him for a moment. His breathing was slow and steady, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. 

Lady nudged her head against Sansa’s knees before jumping up on the spot Sansa had only just vacated. Sansa smiled softly and shook her head at her dog. Lady seemed to prefer Sandor’s company over her own, at times.

Lady had not liked Joffrey. 

Sansa set about quietly making tea and breakfast while Sandor and Lady slept. Through the window over the kitchen sink, Sansa could see the dawning sky drenched in red over the sea. The clouds were huge and looked like stretched cotton, illuminated in pink and gold from the rising sun. With each movement of the sea, orange and white sunlight was reflected back, making the ocean look alive. 

Sansa stood, entranced before the window, nursing her cup of tea. 

“Red in the morn, sailors be warned. Isn’t that it?” came Sandor’s voice, startling her out of her revere. 

She smiled, turning to face him. He wore only his shorts and undershirt; his feet bare on the wood floor. It had been a long time since his state of undress made her uneasy. Now, it made her uncomfortable in an entirely different way. He wound a large hand around her, his palm flat against her stomach, pulling her against him. He pressed his face against her head, kissing her temple before loosening his grip.

Sansa smiled down at his hand on her. She looked over her shoulder at him, and her hand, unbidden, came to loosely hold Sandor’s wrist. She felt warm, though the home was chilly. “Yes, that’s what they say. Though, it is quite beautiful to look at,” she said, turning back to the window. The light was streaming into the living room, tinging everything in a faint pink. It reminded her of stained-glass.

The two shared a quiet morning together, eating and speculating over the day’s coming weather. Lady rested at Sansa’s feet under the table, her eyes wide and hopeful for some dropped scraps. 

When they finished, Sandor set upstairs to get dressed for his day, and Sansa opened the front door, letting Lady run out of the house to do laps around the yard. Sansa stood on the front door stoop, smiling to herself as she watched the dog sprint wildly up and down the grass. As she walked forward her foot brushed something, and Sansa looked at her slippered feet. 

There on her front stoop, lay a package, wrapped neatly in white paper, and fastened with string. It was reminiscent of when Sansa bought Sandor clothes and they were wrapped in the shop. _I still have not given him his sweater._

She picked up the package, her heart beginning to beat faster than usual. _When would someone have been here?_ There was a small note nestled underneath the string binding the paper closed, and Sansa removed it, the card thick and luxurious, the kind forgotten during the war. 

Written in fine cursive with blue ink, was the note, _I hope your man treats you kinder than Petyr did. Looks are not everything, they say._

Sansa felt her entire body go slack. She read the note three more times before blindly pushing the door open and walking into the kitchen. She discarded the note onto the table and tore the paper open. 

It was a pair of woolen socks, sized largely. Soft to touch and hand dyed to be dark green, as were the ones she examined in Varys’s clothing shop. Her stomach dropped, and she worried, only for a moment, that she might be sick. _Someone was here. Someone knows._

She snatched the card from the table and read it again, and again. That was how Sandor found her when he came down the stairs, dressed for his day. Sansa leaned heavily against the kitchen table, absently tapping the card to her lips as she stared at nothing.

“Alright girl?” he asked gruffly. Sansa snapped out of her trance, eyes coming up to meet his. His brow was furrowed. 

Without a word, she held out the card to him and watched as he read it, his brow furrowing even further. “Whose it from?” he asked gruffly.

“I think Varys. The shopkeeper,” Sansa said. She reached behind her and grabbed the socks off the table, offering them to Sandor. “I was looking at these yesterday for you. The size is correct as well.”

Sandor took the socks and turned them over in his hand, staring at them like he wished to see through them. 

“Sandor- he knows. I am sure of it. I do not know what to do,” she said, crossing her arms. She tapped her fingers against her arm as she watched him. “What if he tells?” she whispered.

Sandor grunted. “He will not tell, little bird. Do not worry. I’ll handle it.”

Her stomach turned unpleasantly. “How do you mean?” she asked.

“Best you not know,” he said, voice gruff.

Sansa sank her fingernails into her arm, the pain distracting her from the nausea growing in her belly. “You don’t mean to… kill him, do you?” she asked lowly. She could feel her brows pinching together, but she was unable to relax her face. 

Sandor tossed the socks on the table behind her, and took her gently by the shoulders. “You don’t need to worry about any of it, little bird. I’ll not let any harm come to you.”

His tone was deep and reassuring, though Sansa felt no better. Her stomach churned uncomfortably, and her chest felt constricted. 

“I know. I don’t doubt you,” she said. “But Sandor, no one else should pay for my crimes,” she said quietly, grasping his hands, still on her shoulders. “Don’t hurt anyone on account of me, please.”

“Stop your fluttering about, it will be fine. I swear, this will all be fine,” he said, his tone firm and serious. His thumbs rubbed circles into her shoulders.

“Alright,” Sansa said, her stomach still knotted.


	13. A Very Large Drunk Man

After Sandor left for the shipyards, Sansa paced her small home. She was doing a lot of waiting recently, even more than when her brothers first went off to fight. 

Still, she went about her daily duties, singing softly as she did to make the time move more quickly. Lady trailed her around the home and yard, a silent comfort to Sansa.

Around midday, Sansa gathered up enough food for a small meal and trekked up to her favorite spot, the rock by the sea, the one Sansa had shown Sandor the night he told her of his scars. There she and Lady sat, staring out at the ocean. The waves were picking up, crashing mercilessly against the boulder Sansa sat atop. The sea spray misted her, and by the end of her meal her clothes were damp, leaving her cold to the bone. Lady remained unbothered, chewing on a bit of driftwood she had found on the way up. 

Sansa drew her knees up to her chest, an unladylike action she would have been scolded for long ago. She had no one to scold her anymore. 

She rested her chin atop her knees as she watched the ocean stew and simmer, like men before a fight. The waves smacked against one another, reminding her of a night not very long ago, when Sandor appeared in the night, half-drowned and freshly deserted. 

Sansa began her trek back down the boulders and back to her home, the rocks slick with mist. She was forced to go slowly so as to not tumble down the piled rocks, though Lady had no such trouble. She bounded down the rocks and would slowly walk back up to meet Sansa, as if she expected her master to hurry up, and then repeat the action. The sky had dimmed from its red dawn, and now was a hopeless overcast grey. Nothing like the grey of Sandor’s eyes, Sansa thought.

She pushed open her front door just as the rain began, the droplets falling slowly at first, and then relentlessly against the windows. Yes, this storm was shaping up to be exactly like the one that brought Sandor to her, she thought. 

She lit the fire, changed her clothes, and paced a bit more around the house, singing softly and wasting time. Her nerves were coming back over what he might do. _Perhaps the men will come home early, what with this weather_. 

After lighting the lamp, she forced herself to settle, reaching for Sandor’s book as she lounged on the sofa. It was _Wuthering Heights,_ to her surprise. Sansa laughed softly to herself as she opened to the book, not having read it since she was a girl. She had delighted in reading it, infatuated with the idea of being loved by someone as much as Heathcliff loved Catherine. 

She had not thought Sandor as much of a romance man. Sansa made note to tease him about it later, before opening the book and relaxing into the sofa cushions. She glanced up at the clock, wondering briefly when Sandor would be getting home, and if she should eat without him. 

As she read before the wood stove, basking in the heat of the fire, she grew drowsy. The combination of the warmth and the heavy beat of rain against the house lulled her to sleep. 

Sansa woke with a start, her book falling out of her hand with a thud. She looked at Lady, blinking hard as she gathered herself. Lady’s ear had twitched at the book falling, but otherwise remained still as she slept. 

Sansa sat halfway up the sofa, looking around herself. The rain still pounded against the lighthouse, and a glance at the clock told her it was just shy of midnight. None of the house’s lamps were on, the only light coming from the faint glow of the wood stove, and the periodic sweeps of light from the lamphouse. _Had Sandor gotten back yet?_ She sat up fully, stretching her arms above her head. Her neck was stiff from her position on the couch.

A loud bang against the front door startled Sansa into a standing position. Her heart lurched painfully, coming up her throat as she stared at the door. Lady stood alert at Sansa’s side, whining deep in her throat. Sansa’s blood pounded in her head, though she was rendered immobile with fear. _Move, for Christ’s sake, hide, what are you doing?_

Sansa wondered briefly if the front door was locked, but knew it wasn’t. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. 

Another slam at the door sent her pulse flying, beating too hard for comfort. Lady growled at her side and the noise moved Sansa finally. With a ragged gasp she ran for the kitchen, where the front door stood, pulling a knife from the counter just as the front door banged open. The noise rang louder than thunder in Sansa’s ears, and she screamed, tightening her grip on the knife as she jumped back against the kitchen counter.

She was trapped, she knew, her knife her only means of escape. A man came staggering into the kitchen, a huge man, his head barely clearing the doorframe. Sansa exhaled in relief, slamming the knife onto the kitchen counter.

“Jesus, Sandor, you nearly frightened me to death! What are you doing?” she exclaimed, holding her hand over her wildly beating heart.

Sandor moved slowly and without grace, seeming to have no balance about him. He slammed the front door shut, startling her again.

“Sandor- truly, what are you-,” she began, her tone growing irritable.

“You’re not my bloody keeper girl,” he said, the words coming out slow and harsh. He was drenched from the rain, and his hair was slicked against his face. He looked like he had just emerged from the sea. Like he had looked the night Sansa found him on the beach.

Sansa’s chest tightened at his words, surprised at how quickly he could wound her. She clenched her teeth and strode to the nearest lamp, clicking it on to better see him.

“Argh- turn it off- too bright,” he ordered at her while he awkwardly removed his raincoat, letting it fall to the ground and tossing himself onto the sofa. The furniture creaked with the force of his body. 

“Are you _drunk?”_ she asked, eyes widening as her voice grew chilly. 

“What’s it matter to you?” he slurred bitterly. 

He reeked of alcohol and sweat. “I was waiting for you!” Sansa said, clenching her hands into fists.

“Didn’t ask you to,” he said. He sat up on the couch, looking Sansa over from head to toe.

“Right, well I won’t be making that mistake again.” She glared fiercely at Sandor before turning from him, meaning to go up to bed. He caught her wrist, too tightly, not how he held her when he was sober, and turned her around. 

“Let go of me,” she hissed at him, pulling away fruitlessly. He got to his feet heavily, each steadying footstep sounding like a cannon to Sansa’s ears. His grip loosened but stayed on her as he looked at her with glazed eyes. 

“Don’t turn away from me,” he gruffed at her. He sounded sad, but Sansa was too incensed to care.

“Let go!” she demanded. He let his hand fall. She stood before him, breathing heavily like she had just run to town and back. She took him in with a calculating gaze, feeling her face resort to the icy mask she used after her father was killed.

Sandor’s eyes were unsteady but focused on her. His shirt was only slightly drier than the rest of him, guarded by the raincoat.

Sansa gasped. “What’s that?” she asked, bringing her hand up to his collar. There, marring the white of his shirt was a small spray of blood, going up his neck. 

“Are you hurt? What happened?” It was difficult to keep the concern from her voice. Her fingers skated along his throat, pulling the collar away from his skin as she examined him. “Are you bleeding?”

He batted her hand away, releasing her shoulder. “Let me be, little bird,” he rasped. “S’not mine”

Sansa let her hand fall to her side as she cocked her head at him. “Whose is it?” she asked lowly.

“Told you. Best you not worry about it.” 

“So- what? You come home late, drunk, and bloody? And I’m just expected not to say anything? To not care?” 

Sandor grunted. Her rage was growing to a sharp peak. 

“Where did you go drinking then? The Lion’s Den?” Sansa had to consciously unclench her jaw. “Or Petyr’s brothel?”

“Hear it’s Ros’s now,” Sandor said.

Sansa opened her mouth and then closed it, feeling the back of her eyes prick with tears. _Compose yourself_. 

“Then I hope you found Ros’s brothel much to your liking,” she said, before turning on her heel and making for her room. For the first night in a long while, she locked her door and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I know Sansa did not. Leave a comment? :)


	14. Strong Tea

Sansa woke with a headache, much like the ones she got after each of her parents died. She laid in bed for a moment, trying to recall the previous night’s events. As they came back to her, her stomach sank lower and lower. _Sandor went to Ros’s brothel, and had another person’s blood on his collar. You should be more worried about the blood, you idiot._

Yet here she had laid last night, crying until her head hurt because a man not fully hers went to a brothel. 

Sansa dressed for the day and braided her hair before going downstairs, donning her icy mask to face Sandor. 

He lay on the sofa asleep, the lamp from the night before still on. His raincoat laid where he discarded it on the ground, and a small puddle of water lie collecting under it. Sansa snatched it off the floor, shaking it off with a loud snap, frowning at Sandor’s sleeping form. He remained undisturbed.

Sansa began opening all the curtains in the living area, letting the early morning light stream in before going to start a pot of tea, slamming cabinets open and shut as she retrieved her favorite teacup. 

Sandor groaned lowly from where he laid. 

“Chrissakes girl, keep it down,” he growled.

Sansa slammed the tea kettle onto the stove, the noise ringing loud and metallic. “Oh- so sorry,” she said primly. She gripped the edge of the counter, taking a deep breath before striding into the living room. She would not cry again over this man.

Sansa stood before the sofa, staring down at Sandor. He had tossed an arm over his eyes and his legs hung off the edge of the sofa. Sansa clenched and unclenched her fists.

She poked him sharply in the ribs and he jolted, pulling his arm away from his face and glaring at her. Sansa folded her arms over her chest, staring down at him icily. “Well?” she asked. He said nothing. “Where did the blood come from then?”

Sandor sat up on the couch, holding his head with one hand. “Little bird, I told you, best not to ask questions. Now let me sleep girl,” he said.

“Right. You must forgive me for interrupting your recovery from your night out. It must have been so hard for you, staying out till midnight, enjoying Ros’s brothel. Truly, my apologies,” Sansa said, digging her nails into where she held her own arm. 

Sandor looked up at her, rubbing his temple. 

“Tell me where the blood came from,” Sansa said, her tone giving no room for further discussion.

Sandor sighed heavily and stood from the sofa just as the kettle shrieked. “Fine,” he said. “You won’t like it, girl,” he said. He took the kettle from the stove and pulled out a second teacup for himself, fixing Sansa’s tea first, the way she liked it. Earl grey brewed strong, with a dash of honey. 

He held the cup out to her; an olive branch extended her way. Sansa uncrossed her arms and took the cup from him, their fingers brushing. Sansa cursed herself when her blood spiked at his touch.

Sandor began pouring his. “It was your shopkeeper’s. Varys, he’s called?”

Sansa’s heart sank. “I- yes that’s what he’s called.” She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. 

Sandor turned to look at her plainly, no mirth or desire in his eyes. Just him, watching her react. 

“And what did you do?” she asked.

Sandor raised his good eyebrow at her.

“Tell me,” she ordered, her voice rising slightly, sounding foreign and desperate to her own ears.

“It’s made to look like he did it himself. Won’t point to anyone. Nothing to fret over,” he said.

“Nothing to fret over?” Sansa asked. Her throat felt tight. “There is another man dead! Because of-,” she gestured between them both, “- _us_!”

Sansa swiped a non-existent piece of hair from her face. 

Sandor was unmoved. “I told you little bird, I won’t let any harm come to you.”

“I didn’t tell you to!” Sansa cried. She set her teacup down hard on the kitchen counter, sloshing tea over the rim, soaking the hem of her sleeve. “I didn’t want another person to die! And Varys- he didn’t do anything-,” she wiped furiously at her eyes.

Sandor straightened to his full height. “You're safe now that he’s dead. Our secret died with him.”

Sansa straightened to match, raising her chin to look at him. “So what? You killed Varys, made it look like a suicide, and then decided- what? You were lonely? You wanted a woman, and what better time to have one than after killing a man and getting drunk?”

“You don’t know what you're talking about, girl,” Sandor growled at her, glaring down.

She was flushed pink from chest to hair root and glared right back. “Oh, don’t I?” She stepped into his personal space. “Because it sounds like you decided to go _behind_ my back. You needed someone to cool your blood after killing a man, and now you won’t tell me the truth!”

“I didn’t fuck any whores!” Sandor yelled finally. Sansa jumped from his volume, before regaining her composure and folding her arms over her chest. Relief flooded her veins, making her feel weak in the knees. 

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” she asked coolly. She battled the inappropriate urge to smile, and cocked her head instead. _A man is dead._ “Then what would you be doing in a whorehouse?”

“To get drunk girl. You want the truth- that’s it. I slit the man’s neck and went out to get blasted drunk.” Sandor’s firm eyes bored into hers. “Haven’t wanted a whore in a long-time little bird. Not since I washed ashore.”

A small smile creeped onto Sansa’s face, and she looked out of the kitchen window to gather herself. “Oh,” she said. “I see.” She did not hesitate to believe him. He was an honest man, sometimes hurtfully so, and he had not betrayed her trust thus far. She did not thing he ever would.

“Wait,” she said sharply. “The blood on your collar. Did people see while you were at Pet- Ros’s?”

Sandor chuckled darkly. “I’m a better killer than that, girl. No, no one saw the blood. Used my coat to cover up.”

Sansa nodded, taking in the information. “I don’t like that you went to a brothel,” she said plainly, looking up into his eyes. “I don’t want you to come home blazing drunk again. And you won’t decide what is best for me.” She stepped even closer, so they were barely more than a hand’s length apart. Sansa grasped his bicep, holding firmly as she spoke. “Do not keep things from me.”

Sandor looked down at her for a beat, then two. He reached out and took her braided hair in his hand, letting the plait slip through his fingers. “Aye, little bird. That’s fair. But I meant what I said, I’ll let no harm come to you. I’ll kill a hundred men to keep you safe. If I’m to stick around, you’ll have to accept that.” He tugged the end of her braid.

His words were dark and serious, but Sansa found them strangely arousing. _He will keep his promises. He will keep us safe._ “I know. You won’t frighten me so easily,” Sansa said, smiling softly up at him. 

Sandor leaned down and Sansa pushed his chest lightly. “Oh, not so fast,” she said. Sandor raised his good eyebrow at her. “I’m still angry with you,” she said. “You’ll have to try a bit harder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! I hope none of you were die-hard Varys fans.... Thank you for reading!


	15. Melted Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience with this chapter! Happy reading. :)

Sansa walked along the rocky beach, moving ever so slightly away from the waves as they came rushing toward her feet. It was cold, very cold, and the frigid air stole the breath from her lungs. It had been a day or so since Sandor came home drunk, and her mind stayed occupied since.

There were two men dead now, since she had met Sandor. It was a disturbing thought, one that knotted her belly with guilt if she lingered on it. _You are a murderer._ Despite this, her mind still drifted to the idea of him in a brothel. 

He may not have slept with a whore, but still she imagined him eyeing a girl, maybe some curvy brunette, and forgetting all about her, waiting up for him at home. It made her feel stupid, amidst the horror and murder the two had faced together. 

The crunch of cobble under foot roused her from her contemplation. Snow was beginning to fall lightly, only skinny flakes, and few and far between.

“You’ll catch your death girl,” Sandor said as he approached her. 

Sansa smiled. “I’ve faced weather worse than this. I’ll be fine.”

“No use in bein’ stubborn little bird. That jumper of yours isn’t enough for this time o’ year,” he said. A biting gust of wind punctuated his sentence, slicing straight through Sansa’s clothes.

Snowflakes caught her clothing, resting a moment before melting into the fabric. Sansa stared out at the sea, holding herself stiffly against the cold. She could feel Sandor’s eyes on her, but she kept her gaze on the waves.

The sea was calm, and the snow began to pick up a little. Still, she did not want to go in. 

“Little bird, don’t freeze on account of me,” Sandor gruffed, exasperation leeching into his voice. Sansa scrunched her nose at the ocean.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Sorry?” she asked.

“You're not wanting to be inside ‘cause of me, I know. But I am sorry.” He looked earnest and awesome before her as the wind pinkened his unburned cheek and nose. She watched transfixed as tiny snowflakes caught in his hair and brow and lashes, the white so bright against his dark hair. He was rugged and angelic, and Sansa could scarcely breathe.

A piercing gust of wind cut through Sansa’s jumper once more, waking her from her trance.

“I do not like to feel stupid,” she said to the sea. “That’s how I felt. Waiting up for you as you patronized a brothel.” She scoffed.

“I know. If you’ll have me, I’ll do right by you. I swear it little bird,” he said. There was no humour or playfulness in his tone. Sansa swallowed at his serious tone, letting his words warm her blood. _He killed a man for you._

Sansa blinked snow from her lashes as she turned to look at him. “It seems outrageous,” she said, laughing mirthlessly. “You go behind my back to kill a man, and yet it is the brothel that makes me the angriest.”

“And why’s it the brothel that makes you so angry?” Sandor asked, the stones fumbling against each other as he walked closer. His face was still, his pupils large as he looked at her. 

Sansa’s blood spiked a moment. She schooled her features and looked Sandor over calmly. “Why do you think?” she asked coolly. He now stood just a few steps from her, his presence huge before her, warming her despite the temperature.

Her breath came out before her in a mist, heavy and conspicuous before Sandor. 

“M’ asking you, little bird.”

Sansa lifted her chin. “I do not like to imagine you with any other woman. Whore or not, I don’t care.” She took a breath of frigid air. “I love you.”

Three beats passed before Sandor broke from his stupor. He ran a hand over the back of his head while frowning. “You don’t need to say that girl.”

Sansa’s stomach dropped, and she struggled to keep her face from falling. Words seemed to leave her, and she felt like a fish out of water, its mouth opening, though its fate sealed.

“Wh- what?” she said ungracefully. 

“If you feel you owe me something girl, just ‘cause I killed a man for you, then I don’t need you saying that,” he said harshly. Sansa’s nose scrunched as she stared coldly at him. Her heart was thudding painfully, her stomach tied in a knot.

“I don’t feel I owe you anything. I meant what I said, you great arse, I love you. If you don’t feel the same that’s fine, but I’m _not_ just saying that.” Sansa’s breaths came out in great puffs of white by the time she finished. Her eyes pricked annoyingly, and she swallowed tightly. 

Sandor stood before her, saying nothing. He looked blank. Sansa sighed.

“I’m going in,” she said shortly, walking past him. “I’ll be inside when you think you can-.”

Sandor grabbed her wrist loosely, stopping her in her tracks. She looked warily over her shoulder, turning slightly in his grip to face him. 

“I love you too Sansa,” he said. 

Sansa’s air seemed to leave her, as well as her senses. It no longer seemed so cold.

“I don’t want another man to have you, girl. I want you all to myself. And as for the whores-,” he laughed gruffly, “-no one holds a candle to you little bird.”

Sansa leaned in toward him, smiling as she tilted her face toward him, feeling the snowflakes melt against her cheeks. “Then you’ll need to stop calling me ‘girl,’” she said against his lips, before properly kissing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue coming shortly. I hope you all are taking care during this weird, uncomfortable time, and if you're staying home, I hope you read lots of fabulous fanfiction. Hugs to all of you in the medical field! You guys rock! Be safe, my awesome readers!


	16. Epilogue

Word began to circulate through the small fishing town about the real cause of Varys’s suicide. It was said that he killed Petyr Baelish, dumped him in the sea, and then killed himself when the guilt grew to be too intense. There were varying accounts of this story, including a version where Baelish, seeking a new beginning, left town, and Varys, struck with grief by the disappearance of his former lover, killed himself. 

Any of these accounts were fine with Sansa. 

*

When the war ended, the pair held their breath for what felt like ages, waiting for the British army to appear, demanding Sandor Clegane be handed over for charges of desertion. When four months had passed and still nothing happened, the two exhaled.

The end of the war saw Sansa Stark wed to Sandor Clegane. When Arya visited, cold and changed from the war, she held a knife to Sandor’s throat and told him she’d kill him, should he ever do wrong by Sansa. Sandor had laughed as Sansa stood horrified.

“Arya!” she had yelled. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Let her be little bird,” Sandor said, still chuckling. “Should I ever do you wrong, I’ll deserve it.”

Arya lowered her knife with begrudging acceptance.

*

Snow fell silently outside, and Sansa stood before the kitchen window watching. It was early still; the pink and lilac light of dawn made more brilliant by the cloak of white covering the ground. She held a mug of tea between her palms as she watched silently. Her nausea had finally dissipated, and mornings were peaceful again for Sansa.

Sansa glanced down as something brushed her leg. “Hello, Stranger,” she said to the cat, reaching down to rub behind his ears. He was a bit rough looking- black, with one ear missing. Stranger sat calmly for a moment, and then bit her hand. She gasped and yanked it away, straightening.

“Right bastard isn’t he?” Sandor said from behind her. He wore the thick green jumper she had bought him all those years ago. 

Stranger meowed and ignored them both, instead strolling toward the wood stove. 

“Yes. Seems he only likes you,” Sansa said, taking a sip from her mug.

“Maybe,” he said, and chuckled. “Seems strange, when you're so much prettier,” he said, resting a hand on her belly and kissing her temple. He set about pouring himself a cup of tea, while Sansa smiled. 

“It’s cold,” she said mostly to herself. 

“Oh, I can think of a few ways to warm you up,” Sandor rasped at her, smiling genuinely. He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled the crook of her neck, laying kisses against her throat.

Sansa hummed with pleasure. “Do continue- I’m _freezing_ ,” she said, grinning.

He pulled her over to the sofa, nudging Stranger off one of the cushions to the cat’s great irritation. Sandor pulled her onto his lap, kissing her slowly, rubbing slow circles over her swelling belly. 

It was Sunday morning, with nowhere to be but their home, and they were happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... it's over! I feel so immensely grateful for everyone's love and support for this fic. It was my first one, and you all's response was beyond what I could have ever hoped for. I hope you all enjoyed it, I love this pairing so much, and I really hope you all feel I did right by them. 
> 
> To all of you who commented: even if I didn't respond to your comment, know that I still read it, and was crazy grateful. All of you are so awesome. And to all of you that left kudos: thank you, I cannot express my appreciation enough.
> 
> Okay, that's it. Thank you for reading. :)


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